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dancingbirdie · 1 year

Note

Okay so on Astarion, I was reading this fic about him not knowing Tavs true intentions with him and it bothering Astarion a lot, so what if he goes to some mage or magic user and asks them to show Tavs true intentions to him, when he does the vision he sees is just... being snuggled. It's Tav on top of him and the both of you are falling asleep, his hands are under your shirt softly petting your skin as your sleepy self is contently snuggled up to him. I just start crying about him finding out that Tavs DASTARDLY and EVIL plan with him, their greatest desire from him... is to simply be held. 🥺

Hi @goblin-creatcher! Thank you so much for this BEAUTIFUL prompt. I, uhh, kind of took it and went a million miles an hour with it. This is honestly one of my favorite things I've ever written. I hope you enjoy it as well! xoxoxo

Something Imagined / Something Real

Word Count: 3.9K

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Astarion x f!Tav

Warnings/Tags: Brief but detailed description of rough consensual sex, descriptions and references to Astarion's trauma/trauma responses, minor Act 1 and Act 2 spoilers, FLUFF, angst

Suggested Song Pairing: Slow Dancing in A Burning Room (Stripped) - cover by ST LUNA

Summary: Astarion has been suspicious of Tav’s true intentions toward him. He persuades Gale to cast a spell and reveal her motivations. ANGST and FLUFF ensue. A rewriting of Astarion’s confession scene from Act 2.

The sun had just begun to set on the campsite when Astarion decided to put his plan into action. He had waited until Tav departed with some of the other party members before making his way over to the wizard. Gale was too busy reassembling the bookshelf inside his tent to notice Astarion’s approach. It wasn’t until he gave a polite cough that Gale jumped and whirled to face him.

“No, no, no,” he began all at once, hands raised in a sort of shooing motion. Astarion stared at him in confusion. “I can respect Tav’s indulging in your need for blood, but as I’ve said before: I taste terrible.”

Astarion scoffed. “Charming. Actually, wizard, I was coming to request your aid in a different, though somewhat related, matter.”

“Really? Care to elaborate?” Gale responded, still somewhat wary. It wasn’t often he found himself alone with the vampire.

“Testy, I see,” Astarion crooned teasingly. His knee-jerk response to people treating him like a monster, to behave in the most false saccharine sort of way.

But he drew up short, censoring himself before saying anything else he might regret. He knew he needed to get on the wizard’s good side if he had any chance of getting the answers he sought.

“I was hoping you knew a spell to reveal someone’s true intentions. Their… motivations for behaving in a certain way, so to speak,” he finished more seriously.

Gale pondered the question for a moment before answering.

“Hmm… yes, there is magic to determine that sort of thing… Although it’s been some time since I practiced it…” He trailed off, rubbing his chin in thought.

“Why are you asking for such a thing?” he asked suddenly.

Astarion had been prepared for this question, of course. No one did anything for free, no questions asked. He delivered his explanation perfectly, as he’d been rehearsing in his mind.

“One might say our dear sweet Tav and I have been growing a bit… closer these days, but I can sense a master manipulator when I see one. I just simply want to ensure their intentions toward me - toward the party - are true,” he replied with mock innocence.

“Ah, yes,” Gale nodded. “I gathered as much when the two of you slipped away from the tiefling’s party a few nights ago.”

“But,” he continued on,”I needn’t think you should worry when it comes to Tav. She seems about as transparent as they come. I’m sure any intentions she has toward you are true.”

Yes, but the best actors always mask their motivations behind innocence and transparency, Astarion thought to himself. I should know. I’ve been doing it for centuries.

After the party’s unfortunate meeting with that Gur in the Sunlit Wetlands, Astarion realized he would have to take potential threats from Cazador even more seriously. He wasn’t about to lose his freedom, not now that he finally had some small taste of it.

It didn’t hurt to be more suspicious of everyone he encountered, even the sweetling Tav. Anyone could be an operative sent by Cazador, and the best ones would be as skilled as he was in the art of manipulation. It was well-known at this point that the person he’d grown the closest to on their journey was their brave party leader, Tav. Unlikely as it may be that she was scheming for his master, Astarion’s paranoia wouldn’t let him indulge in interactions with her a second longer unless he knew how she truly felt.

Given Gale’s hesitation, Astarion knew he would have to kick his acting up a notch. Press on that wizard’s heartstrings. Touch the one nerve he knew he was sensitive to.

“Gale, darling, from one literally damaged soul to another, indulge me just this once,” Astarion beseeched him.

The wizard glared at him a moment, before finally relenting with a heavy sigh. “Fine. Fine. But I want it known that I don’t agree with this so-called solution one whit,” he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, yes, noted and formally documented, on my word as a former Baldurian magistrate,” Astarion replied cheerily. “So, let’s hop to it then, shall we?”

“What, right now?” Gale asked, shocked. “Shouldn’t we be, I don’t know, a little less conspicuous?”

“What better time than now?” Astarion responded. “Tav’s out gathering firewood with Wyll and Karlach. They won’t be back for some time. As for Lae’zel and Shadowheart, well…” he paused, gesturing over his shoulder.

Said two were engaged in a heated sparring session on the outskirts of the camp. Snarls and curses could be heard emanating from both warriors as they tried, and failed, to gain the upper hand against their opponent.

“That lovers’ dance could go on until morning,” Astarion finished.

“Fair point,” Gale admitted begrudgingly, grimacing at the sound of swords clashing violently. “Very well. Let’s get started.”

Clearing his throat, Gale began to utter a series of phrases completely foreign to Astarion. He watched as the wizard began moving his hands in a wavelike pattern, forming a circle before them. Suddenly, a mist began to form from seemingly thin air, taking shape according to the boundaries Gale’s hands were creating. The mist grew more and more opaque until it appeared before them like a clouded mirror.

As the fogginess of the ethereal magic began to clear, the “mirror” became a confusing blur of scenes whipping by, too fast for Astarion or Gale to really comprehend. There were flashes of Tav and Astarion, together and separate, but they disappeared too quickly to ascertain their context. It was as though the spell was shuffling through the entirety of Tav’s thoughts, assessing each one at breakneck speed.

Finally, the spell slowed to a halt, stopping on one scene in particular. Astarion was struck speechless by what began playing out in the foggy portal before them. So distracted, he didn’t even notice Gale’s tight cough, or how the wizard suddenly became intensely interested in a copse of trees nearby, rather than the revelation the spell was revealing.

Not that the scene was especially profound, objectively speaking. In fact, to anyone else, it might be viewed as the least revelatory thing possible that the spell could have shown. Boring. Inconsequential, even. But to Astarion, it was almost earth shattering.

He saw himself - he could see his face! - with Tav, lying tangled together in some immaculate four-poster bed.

That was the first shock that coursed through him, nearly causing his knees to buckle. He was seeing himself for the first time in over 200 years. Or at least, he was seeing himself as Tav saw him. And… the person he saw… Well, he was gorgeous. White blonde locks, curled and tousled in a devil-may-care sort of way. A strong, patrician nose that suggested good breeding. High, sharp cheekbones. Full lips, upturned in a thoughtless grin. Red eyes bordered by long, sweeping lashes. Delicately pointed elven ears. Smooth alabaster skin, without blemish or spot.

Astarion could scarcely believe his own eyes.

The second shock to his system was the nature of their activities. He would have been less surprised had the vision shown them fucking. Him taking her roughly from behind perhaps. His name a cry of ecstasy from her lips as he pistoned in and out of her with a feral sort of determination.

Fantasies of lust, of total domination, now those were things he was familiar with inspiring in the minds of the victims he had taken as lovers. It was what he strove for, in all honesty. Desire like that all but ensured he would capture his prey and live to serve another day for his master.

But nothing of the sort was occurring between vision-Tav and himself. Instead, they were just… embracing? What in sweet hells was this?

She lay halfway on top of him. Her hair was mussed, perhaps from sleep or perhaps from previous lovemaking. One hand was drawing absentminded shapes across his chest, her lips trailing behind, leaving kisses in their wake. He watched as vision-Astarion chuckled softly, as his hands slipped beneath her sleepshirt to caress her waist, as he placed an innocent kiss on the top of Tav’s head. Eventually, she reached for his hand. They both watched their fingers intertwine, blissfully content.

It was the purest, unadulterated expression of affection that Astarion had ever seen. Something in his heart quaked at the sight of it. He wanted that moment. He envied, he hated, vision-Astarion for enjoying such apparent happiness.

So absorbed in the vision and its implications, Astarion failed to notice the soft padding of feet that indicated someone’s re-entry into the camp.

“If the two of you are quite finished poking around in my head,” an angry voice suddenly spat from behind them, “I’d appreciate you preserving what little privacy I have left and shutting that damn spell off.”

Mortified, Astarion and Gale turned to see Tav, arms crossed and visibly seething with rage. Gale quickly dispelled the magic with a flick of his wrist. A blush was slowly but surely rising up Tav’s neck to reach her cheeks. Whether from rage or embarrassment, Astarion couldn’t be certain.

“Tav, let us explain-” Astarion started.

“It was his idea-” Gale blurted at the same time, pointing at Astarion.

Both paused, glaring at one another. But Tav would have none of their feeble attempts at backpedaling.

“The explanation doesn’t matter. Whose idea it was doesn’t matter. The fact is that both of you violated the privacy of my mind, which I’ll remind you, has ALREADY been violated by having a bloody tadpole forced inside of it!” Tav shouted. At their words, the camp became enveloped in a heavy silence. Even the crickets ceased their chirping.

Astarion cringed inwardly, knowing the other party members could plainly hear this altercation and had likely stopped whatever it was that they had been doing to listen in. He noted the sounds of swords clanging together had ceased. He was certain Lae’zel and Shadowheart at least were aware of what was happening. Nosy bastards, all of them.

But what disturbed him even more was the realization that Tav’s eyes were welling with tears. She was too proud to acknowledge them or wipe them away. Such was her nature. But they were there nonetheless, and the knowledge that Astarion had brought her to the point of tears was enough to spur a rush of utter self-loathing inside him.

Without another word, Tav turned on her heel and marched stiffly out of camp, toward the direction of a nearby creek they’d identified as a water source earlier in the day.

“I can’t believe I let you convince me to perform that spell,” Gale said as she disappeared between the trees. He dragged his hands down his face.

“How could we have been so doltish, forgetting that all of our privacies have already been violated with this tadpole business?”

Astarion didn’t have an answer to that. At least, not one the wizard could possibly understand.

The thought hadn’t occurred to Astarion, he realized, because violations of privacy had been something so intrinsic to his being for over 200 years. He didn’t even recognize it as something abnormal. Like a fish unaware that the water surrounding it is, in fact, water.

Violations of privacy were a part of life, at least for him. So much so that his request for Gale to perform that magic hadn’t even occurred to him as an overstepping of boundaries. To Astarion, it had simply been a matter of survival. He had needed to know another potentially manipulative person’s true intentions, and so he had found a means to uncover it and maintain the upper hand.

Belatedly, he also realized that Gale’s hesitation to cast the spell had had nothing to do with being inconvenienced for the evening, but because the wizard had known that it was improper to do to another person. If he had misread that, Astarion wondered, then what other truly benevolent behaviors had he mistaken as pragmatic manipulation?

“I need to go find her,” Astarion murmured, clenching and unclenching his fists in an uncharacteristic fit of uncertainty.

“Yes, you do,” Gale asserted. “We both owe her a sincere apology… if she’ll even accept it.”

“I’ll see if I can convince her to come back to camp,” Astarion replied, making to leave in the direction Tav had stormed off.

“Wait,” Gale said, a hand on his shoulder. Astarion turned to meet his gaze.

“Look, well, I’m obviously not an expert in healthy demonstrations of affection. But I do think it’s obvious from what you saw in that spell that Tav well and truly cares about you. In perhaps the purest way possible. Treat that carefully.”

Part of Astarion wanted to laugh aloud in utter hopelessness at the wizard’s advice. Someone cared for him? Truly and purely? No hidden games, no strings attached? Oh certainly, that wouldn’t be a problem for Astarion at all. Obviously, his 200-year existence as a master-manipulator-fetch-hound for a power-hungry vampire lord had perfectly prepared him to respond to this situation in a healthy manner. Obviously.

But all that was too much to reveal to someone he barely knew and too heavy to say aloud. Rather than giving some smarmy retort, Astarion opted instead to give a stiff nod and continue walking toward the edge of camp. He had no idea how he could make things right with Tav, but at the very least he could try.

***

He found Tav sitting on a fallen tree near the edge of the creek bed. Her legs were drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them as she rested a cheek to her knees. In the waning twilight, she reminded Astarion of some misbegotten gargoyle perched on the roof of a temple, solitary and so very sad.

Her ears twitched as she noted his arrival. Astarion wasn’t trying to be stealthy. On top of everything else, the last thing he needed to do was scare her.

“Can I join you?” he asked softly, wincing to himself at the awkwardness of the question.

The reality was that there was no way to broach this conversation without some stilted beginning, and he hated it. Navigating tricky conversations was normally something he excelled at. But as he was quickly finding, when it related to Tav, nothing in his past life had prepared him to respond to her well.

“If you’d like,” Tav answered tonelessly.

Knowing it was probably the best response he was going to get, Astarion swallowed thickly and moved to sit down on the log next to her.

“I… wanted to… apologize for what you saw, back at camp,” he began.

“Apologize for doing it, or apologize for getting caught?” Tav asked as she turned her head to look at him, resting her other cheek on her knees.

Astarion balked at the question. Her piercing gaze unnerved him. He hadn’t really thought that far.

“Both, I suppose?” he answered honestly, although it sounded more like a question to Tav. She huffed a laugh.

“You know, part of me really wants to yell at you. Scream in your face. Tell you off proper,” she mused.

“So why don’t you?” Astarion asked, perplexed.

Tav didn’t respond at first, just sat there studying him. As if by staring at him long enough, she could project the answer into his mind.

Astarion didn’t interrupt her, much as he would have liked to. Part of him always bristled when people gazed at him for too long. It was unfair that they could study him, when he hadn’t been able to so much as glance at his reflection in over 200 years.

Finally, Tav released a heavy sigh, her body curling further in on itself. She closed her eyes as she spoke.

“Because then I would be just like every other bastard in your life who’s mistreated you.”

Astarion flinched in surprise. Those had not been the sort of words he’d been expecting. The truth of them cut deeper than had she raged at him like she wanted to. It left him feeling even more vulnerable, and that in turn made him want to retreat into the comfort of viciousness.

“I don’t need you to pull any punches,” he scoffed, glaring at her. “Go ahead and say what you will.”

She straightened up at his tone, opening her eyes and returning his glare.

“No. I don’t want to,” she said testily.

“I don’t need your pity,” he hissed. “It’s insulting.”

“Gods damn it all, Astarion!” Tav exclaimed suddenly, causing him to jump in surprise. She threw her hands up in defeat. “I’m not doing anything out of pity! I don’t want to rage at you, because I know that whatever I say right now, I won’t mean it come the morning!”

Astarion blinked. Once again he was left feeling flat footed by the turn of the conversation. Sensing his surprise, Tav continued on with her deluge of words.

“You hurt me tonight, and I’m angry at you - and at Gale, for that matter - for what you did. But you’ve shared enough of your… history… with me, that I realize your behavior is just… just a byproduct of centuries of abuse and manipulation you’ve endured! And I won’t be another abuser in your life. I won’t,” she asserted.

Astarion continued staring at her, as if she were some otherworldly creature that had just wandered across his path. He watched as Tav inhaled a deep breath, releasing it shakily. She turned away from him to peer out into the forest, uncertain. She opened and closed her mouth several times before actually speaking. As if whatever she was about to say was more intimidating to her than anything else she’d said tonight.

“I… care deeply for you, Astarion,” she said quietly. “You obviously saw that in the vision. I’m not playing any games. There’s no hidden motive. I’m not trying to manipulate you.”

She turned to look at him again before continuing, her breathing a bit unsteady.

“I didn’t sleep with you that night of the tiefling party as some sort of maneuver to gain your trust. Although I understand if that was your motivation for doing so.”

Astarion’s expression morphed into one of guilt. But Tav nodded soberly, as if she had already expected it, before continuing on.

“It’s okay. I’m not angry. But I’m putting all my cards on the table now, so to speak. Actually, your decision tonight forced my hand, but I had been planning on telling you soon anyway. So, there you have it. The truth of my intentions. What you do with that information is up to you.”

She turned back to gaze out at their surroundings. Like she was giving him the opportunity to bolt away without her watching him. As if she expected him to flee from her confession.

But Astarion didn’t flee. He remained seated, staring at her in complete wonderment.

“Why?” he asked quietly.

She looked back at him again, confusion evident on her face.

“Why what?”

“Why do you care for me? You’re so… well-adjusted. And I’m well… this,” he finished lamely, placing a hand on his chest.

Tav pursed her lips. “It would be a mistake to misconstrue my empathy for you as me being well-adjusted. Everyone has their own demons, Astarion,” she murmured. “Mine just look different from yours.”

Astarion mulled her words over in his mind, considering them. He leaned forward to brace his forearms on his knees, his head drooping slightly.

“I…,” he started, unsure. “That vision… what it implied… You deserve something real, Tav. You’re incredible… truly.”

Tav closed her eyes, bracing for the fallout. Even though she would accept his decision, whatever it was, she didn’t think she could bear to watch him deny her. It would hurt too much.

“Look. When we met, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan,” he blurted all at once. Rising swiftly to his feet, Tav watched as he began to pace before her, near to bursting with frenetic energy.

“Seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you’d never turn on me,” he counted off, laughing half-heartedly. “It was… easy - instinctive. Habits from two hundred years of charming people kicked in. All you had to do was fall for it. And all I had to do… was not fall for you… which is where my nice, simple plan fell apart,” he finished, stopping to stand before her.

She held his gaze, speechless.

“I want you,” he whispered fervently. “I want what was in that vision… I want us to be something real.”

Never in a million years had she thought he would respond to her like this. She opened her mouth to speak, but Astarion cut her off with another sudden exclamation.

“I just don’t know what real is,” he confessed, his tone a touch hysterical. Tav knew from his body language that being this transparent was completely out of Astarion’s comfort zone.

“Being… close to someone - any kind of intimacy - was something I performed to lure people back. For him. Even though I know things between us are different, being with someone still feels… tainted. Still brings up those feelings of disgust, and loathing. I… I don’t know how else to be with someone. No matter how much I’d like to,” he finished, staring at her with beseeching eyes, willing her to understand.

Tav rose to her feet, coming to stand before him.

“I don’t want you for your body,” she whispered. “Or to perform any acts of intimacy. We can be together, without sleeping together, for as long as you need.”

“Really,” he asked softly, his voice pitched low, rough with emotion.

“Really,” Tav asserted, giving him a small smile. “Would it be all right if…” she paused, conflicted. He eyed her curiously.

“Could I hug you?” she whispered.

The fact that she asked before doing so caused a well of emotion to spring up inside him. Eyes watering, Astarion nodded.

Slowly, Tav moved forward to wrap her arms around his waist. Her head nestled into the crook of his neck and shoulder. A perfect fit. He felt her exhale a deep sigh.

Tav hugging him was a sensation unlike any he had ever felt. At least, any he could remember feeling. The act of being touched, embraced, without any desire for something more. She just wanted to hold him, feel him close to her. It was incomprehensible to him, but utterly enjoyable, at the same time.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Astarion raised his arms to return Tav’s embrace. Drawing her even closer, he bowed his head to rest his cheek against her hair. It was soft, like the finest silk. He closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply, appreciating her sweet, floral scent.

She made to pull away after a moment, not wishing to overwhelm him. But Astarion gripped her more firmly, a silent urge for them to stay that way a little longer.

“This… this is nice,” he whispered.

He both felt and heard Tav hum contentedly in response.

It wasn’t identical to the vision from Tav’s mind that he had seen, but Astarion reveled in their embrace nonetheless. It felt like the beginning of something new. And for the first time in his very, very long life, Astarion felt excited at the prospects of what would come next.

#astarion #dancingbirdiewrites #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate astarion #baldur’s gate astarion #astarion x f!reader #astarion bg3 #bg3 astarion fic #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x mc #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic

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jo-com · 3 months

Note

Oscar but with a very dear-like girlfriend (she's very shy, skittish and very rare to see on social media because she avoids the cameras like the plague)

🩰 ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ୨ৎ ➛ Bambi

Oscar Piastri x Fem!reader

Summary: Based of the request☝🏻

Genre: Fluff and a little bit of SMAU

Fc: Kathryn Bernardo

Note: there are some grammar errors and i am sorry if i just answered this request now, i was finishing some of my og works in my draft soo i hope you enjoyed this!!.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ➛ My Masterlist

─────── ─ ⊹⁺ 💋⋅˚₊𐙚 ─ ───────

The bustling city roared with excitement— the mix of music and chatters filled the lively streets. Within that, two friends were walking amongst the crowd when they suddenly spotted one particular driver that was walking at the side with a girl?

With nerves that fueled both their curiosity and joy, they slowly approached the couple with smiles that stretched across their faces.

One of them lightly tapping Oscar’s shoulder making the couple turn around to completely face the two. “Uhm hi, me and my friend saw you guys and were wondering to get a picture?”she spoke, some of her words came out stuttered.

Before answering, Oscar looked back at you— his eyes curling into questionable ones,”Is that alright with you my love?” He asked, his tone soft and gentle. Like he always have with you.

“Yeah baby it’s fine” you muttered, your voice barely audible, but was loud enough for him to hear.

Oscar knew how anxious and shy you get whenever there are others; it was a habit you developed when you were small that came with you throughout adulthood. Luckily you met a guy who was willingly patient for you to open up.

And you were forever grateful for that.

The two friends looked at awe at their relationship, their eyes shined with adoration, but their minds still processing the new found information.

It was never said or announced that Oscar had a girlfriend— she was also rarely seen in both the media and the paddock. So they were shock to see a girl that nestled close to his embrace.

Oscar coughed, getting the attention of the two, he smiled at them and answered back politely, “yeah sure, we can take a picture.”

The two girls squealed with happiness as they put out their phone and took one or two shots of pictures.

After that, the friends thanked them both and let them to enjoy the lively city.

…

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Randm_girlie OMFG JS MET THE OSCAR PIASTRI (I still can’t believe it)

Tagged; @M_Bff

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Username1 WAIT WHO IS HE WITH

Username2 wth who is she!?!!

Username3 Does @Mclaren know abt this!

Username4 EWWW WTF

Username5 I’ve not seen her in the paddock

Randm_girlie CHILL GUYS, it’s his gf and she’s very pretty in person💕

Username6 ohh gross

Username7 js like u??

Username8 WAIT I JUST SAW HER INSTA

Username9 damn that fast?

Username8 It’s @Just.yn but it’s private

Username16 saw them once, they’re perfect

Username17 SHES NICE ASF AND GETS VERY SHY I LOVE HER

…

With that single picture— the two of you have been the talk of the social. People from his circle and friend group asked numerous times who you were and whether or not the rumors were true.

They were honestly begging for details.

“My baby is so famous”, Oscar joked, his hand sliding up to caress your cheeks.

You playfully rolled your eyes and pouted, “Not funny osc, you know how i hate attention.”

Oscar let out a few giggle and pinched your cheeks. “Too late baby, you’re just too adorable that people are so interested in you.”

“Should i be jealous?” He added, his face jokingly shifted into a shock.

You happily laughed back at his antics. The two of you sharing a laugh as you guys joked around some more.

…

Liked by Mclaren, Just.yn, Charles_leclerc and 4,789,701 others

Oscarpiastri Compilation of me and her (this is the closest you will get to seeing her pictures)

Tagged; @Just.yn

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Username10 SHES SO PRETTY WHAT

Username11 R U GATEKEEPING HER SIR??

Oscarpiastri yes she’s mine forever

Username12 CAN SHE BE MINE

Oscarpiastri uhm no.

Username13 Admin come get ur boy

Landonorris No wonder you don’t hangout with me anymore🙁

Oscarpiastri she’s way better ngl

Username14 BRUTAL😭

Username15 WAIT SHE KINDA FINE

Oscarpiastri KINDA??? Girl please she’s hella fine

McLaren We need to teach you some selfcontrol☺️

…

I hope i did it okay?? Idk it felt off🥹🥹

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sttoru · 1 year

Text

𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

⟣ sypnosis. you had been in your first ever relationship with suguru for a couple months now. neither of you have taken your relationship to the next level; suguru was extremely patient and never brought the topic of sex up until you one day decide you were ready.

⟣ note. first fic for my event :3 i spent way too much time on this fic so it turned out very detailed, long, romantic and fluffy. i hope you all enjoy and appreciate it teehee. this post contains smut, proceed at own risk ! wc: around 6.1k

⟣ tags. soft dom!geto suguru x virgin!female reader. fluff + smut. slow burn. age gap (reader 20-ish, suguru around 29/30), little talks about insecurity, loss of virginity, breast play, edging, teasing, fingering, lots of praise, dirty talk, size difference!, p in v — unprotected (dont b like reader and use protection please), creampie, aftercare, suguru’s really romantic and just a softie for u, suguru being a good ‘dad’ to mimiko and nanako and teeny tiny bits of him secretly being a pervert.

never in a million years had suguru expected his girlfriend to be so upfront about such a big, personal decision. the thought of having you say those words had never crossed his mind.

“can you repeat that for me, sweetheart?”

could you blame him for asking you to clarify the words you’ve uttered? that man has seen you as an oblivious and innocent woman ever since the start of your relationship. of course, unbeknownst to him, your thoughts were anything but that.

you may be a virgin, but your mind was a place for the most lewd and nasty thoughts. it’s just that you’ve been scared of being intimate with a man—it’s frightening, especially when having heard the many online stories about how badly it could hurt. some say that such descriptions were over exaggerating, however your inexperience still lead you to believe everything you’ve read about the topic.

and then you started dating an older man named suguru. you’ve met him by chance at a mall in kyoto and he was the first one who approached the other. you remember how suguru politely asked you for some advice regarding what type of presents he should get for ‘two teenage girls’. of course, you agreed to helping him out and that’s how you two eventually ended up brainstorming about possible ideas in a cozy café.

once seated, chosen drinks in both your hands, you asked the man whether the gifts were meant for his daughters. somehow, that’s the first connection the neurones in your brain had made once suguru told you about the two teenagers he was picking out presents for.

you remember it vividly; the sweet, gentle sound of the laughter that accounted as your answer, the eyes of the then stranger looking rather nostalgic as they stared into the liquid in his cup. suguru responded vaguely; “i guess you could say that, yes.”

that little ‘date’—if you could call it that—ended on a wholesome note. suguru thanked you for your time and made sure that you safely got into the train you needed to take home. he did want to offer you a car ride, however he kept that question to himself since he knew that no woman would voluntarily agree to be taken home by a stranger. even if suguru had the purest of intentions.

there were a couple more dates that followed after that one; all where you both gradually got to know each other better. you’ve found out so much about suguru—the details about his own life being both fascinating and sad at the same time. likewise, suguru had also learned much about you. he always shows great interest in what you tell him, even if it’s a minuscule detail. he remembers it all as well—a feature which caused you to feel funny things in your stomach.

you realised you were catching feelings for that mysterious yet sweet and loving man; it was inevitable. the way he makes you giggle, his respectful and easygoing manner of speaking, the slight touches you two shared on accident.. all of it added to your little crush.

however, you didn’t actually think suguru was falling for you too. you only met up for a few times, plus, you seem out of his league—both due to your age gap and difference in the things you’re pursuing at the time. you were in college, trying to get your degree whilst he already had a job as a powerful leader of an organisation and was trying to achieve one of many goals with them.

there’s not a chance he’d like you, right?

wrong. you were confessed to a couple weeks after your first meeting and have been in a relationship for over 4 months now. it still felt like a dream; having your first boyfriend be such a gentleman. it truly felt like you already met the love of your life whenever he was near.

suguru’s been nothing but sweet and caring to you, has never asked you to engage in any sexual activities nor even ever dared to touch you in places you haven’t consented to. the furthest you’ve gone in terms of intimacy in those four months, were make-out sessions. just some tongue action here and there—adding sprinkles of neck kisses and hickeys.

there were times where you wanted to let things escalate, however you couldn’t bring it upon yourself to ask your lover. suguru wasn’t the person to decide your feelings for you either—if there was no verbal consent coming from your lips, he’s not going any further. even if he wanted to as well.

you were grateful that suguru was that willing to wait for you, no matter how long it might take. not only were you anxious of the possible pain the sex would bring, but it was partially due to the fact that your lover was much more experienced in that field.

what if you were lacking? what if it wasn’t satisfactory enough for him and he’d eventually leave you for it? it’s obvious that suguru wasn’t the type of man to actually do that, however you couldn’t stop the many possibilities from running free in your brain.

your change of mind was rather spontaneous; it was today when you suddenly came up with your final decision. you were staying over at suguru’s, the sun was out and he was sitting on his balcony, reading a book whilst sipping on his coffee. what caught your eye was his bare back and the muscles which were on display to you.

suguru was shirtless and the seams of light were making his skin glisten—the view making your own body hot and bothered. you bit your lip and approached your boyfriend from behind, wrapping your arms around his shoulders before kissing his neck. that skin-to-skin contact made you sure of your decision; you needed him. in more ways than one.

that’s how you ended up saying what you said. the statement left suguru baffled since you uttered it in his ear out of the blue. he couldn’t deny one thing however; the idea certainly did send a shiver of excitement down his spine.

“i said,” you repeat with a little mischievous grin, leaning in closer to your lover once he turned around to face you properly—as if searching for any hints that your words were indeed not his imagination, “i wanna lose my virginity to you.”

it wasn’t. you actually said it—the words that would take your relationship a step further. although, suguru couldn’t help but wonder where your sudden decision came from. his hands found their way to yours and he held onto them like they were two delicate flowers.

“i’m happy to hear that, though i’m curious,” your lover starts off carefully as he places chaste yet soft kisses on your palms, “why so sudden?”

you shrug nonchalantly like you didn’t feel that twinge of nervousness in the back of your mind as you felt suguru’s lips on your skin. ‘it really was happening now, was it?’—that kind of feeling was the cause of your subtle anxiousness.

“well, ehh— you just looked good.. sitting there.. i guess.” you mumble, voice trailing off in embarrassment whilst your eyes darted around the balcony in attempt to avoid suguru’s gaze. your flustered expression and adorable confession makes him laugh gently. it was not a mocking laugh at all—more of an amused one;

“just when i thought you couldn’t get any cuter..” the long-haired man muses, the locks of his bangs grazing ever so slightly against your hands as he keeps holding them, “you never fail to surprise me, do you know that?”

suguru had a way with words that made you weak in the knees. or maybe it’s simply because he’s shirtless and kissing your palms so romantically. you don’t know which one it was.

“but, love,” suguru continues carefully as he stands up, your eyes following his as he towers over you, “are you a hundred percent sure? i don’t want to do anything you aren’t comf—“

“yes.” your answer cut your boyfriend off and he’s left in shock once more. your eyes were filled with determination, yet the faint glint of nervousness in them didn’t escape suguru’s sight. you’ve given your verbal consent and are even the first one to suggest the idea— what more could he ask of you?

there hung a silence between you two, the breeze blowing through suguru’s dark locks making him look even more majestic than he already was. you had no doubt about it; today was going to be the day. it had to be.

“then, if you’d let me have this,” his low voice sounded more sensual than it had ever been as his hand found its place on your cheek, fingertips rubbing against your ear, thumb softly pressing onto your skin—

a slow and romantic kiss followed straight afterwards. it had caught you slightly off guard, even when knowing fully well that this was what you were longing for.

his lips moved in tandem against yours, the soft touch making you feel certain emotions that you hadn’t even thought existed. this man whom you called your lover had never been unable to expose you to new sensations. and soon, he’ll grant you another one. a much pleasurable one.

one arm circled your waist, the other held up, hand on the back of your head to deepen the passion-filled kiss you shared. his lips parted your lightly trembling ones, the tips of your tongues attentively rubbing against one another as if to test the waters; was it fine to go further? are we actually doing this?

you were. it was set in stone as your throat formed soft noises of satisfaction, shaky breaths being exchanged by the two lovers on the balcony—not one of you realising that the weather was changing in the background. the sun was setting, creating the perfect mood for the situation as you were still engrossed by each other’s moves and touches.

it was only for the sake of catching your breath that you had pulled away. your cheeks felt hot, as did your entire body which was still pressed against suguru’s—chest to chest. the proximity was one you both had enjoyed many moments before, however this instant was unlike any other. you both knew as you stared at each other in silence, your quick breaths doing the talking instead.

“will you let me..” the voice of which you have grown to adore spoke to you, the owner grasping your attention once more by holding onto your hand. suguru’s fingers smoothly slid across your skin until they found the puzzle they were meant to complete—that being the gaps between your own fingers. once your hands were tightly intertwined, the man finishes his sentence;

“will you let me love you?”

his face was still close to yours as he uttered those beautiful words to you, warm breath lightly fanning the thin strands of hair on your cheeks to the side, lips subconsciously trying to brush against yours once more. but, they could wait. they could wait until the agreement leaves your mouth.

“of course.” the answer escapes before you could even register it properly. this makes suguru smile against your lips as he captured them in another sweet kiss. he muttered a small ‘thank you’ and then swept your legs off the floor—strong arms placed under your thighs to hold you up against his body whilst the hungry kisses continue.

suguru doesn’t know how he got there; carrying you over to his bed, settling you down onto the soft mattress, his body caging yours underneath him, eyes fluttering over every detail of your exposed skin. he hadn’t had you like this ever before; he hadn’t had you in his bed for a reason as sinful as this, only ever for cuddles or sleep.

“you’re beautiful.” the dark-haired man whispers as he carefully takes off the clothing covering your figure—the gorgeous skin his hands still have yet to explore. suguru can’t remember the last time he has treated anyone like this; like a treasure he’s had the honour to find and keep to himself. there hasn’t been a single woman in his life that he’s cared for this much—you’re the only one capable of mellowing him and his heart.

“stunning,” another compliment; another breath spent to praise you. your lover’s fingers teased the edges of your bra, lips kissing down your collarbone and towards the centre of your chest—each touch being done with precision. your bra became undone a second later and you let the straps fall of your arms, all the way until your breasts were fully revealed.

suguru’s breath hitches, mouth forming more saliva than in any previous instants, the liquid being pushed down his throat with a gulp. you didn’t have the chance to feel conscious of yourself in a moment like this; the dim light of the bedside lamp shone on suguru’s face, his lips glistening with a mixture of your saliva whilst his gaze was lingering on the new sight in front of him—he was utterly obsessed.

“may i?” his hands were already reaching out for the plump flesh and they came in touch once you nodded shyly. his palms were warm as they kneaded your breasts and his fingers brushed against your nipples, which made you whimper from how sensitive they were now that someone else has finally touched them.

suguru took notice of your reaction and put pressure on both small buds once again, thumbs rubbing your areolas in circular motions, “that good, princess?”

“mhmm— y-yes,” you mutter through a moan. your body was pushed further onto the mattress as your lover put more of his weight on you, your entire chest area getting covered by licks and kisses, slow and deliberate ones that left you yearning for more. suguru’s eyes gazed up at yours for consent once his parted lips hovered just above your sensitive nipples, his breath on them alone making you squirm already.

with another nod, suguru wasted no time taking one nipple into his warm mouth—wetting it with his saliva as his tongue slid around the area. his long fingers squeezed, twisted and pulled on your other nipple to give you both stimulations at once.

“mm, so good.” his muffled voice caused goosebumps to appear on your skin. suguru slowly lets his lips travel across your tits, sucking on them, even kissing down the curves until he reaches your torso. he gives that area the same amount of love and attention whilst your fingers were tangled around his smooth, long hair. suguru clearly seemed to enjoy the sensations; he let out small moans and hums against your bare skin to indicate that you should continue playing and tugging at his locks.

his tongue abruptly came to a stop right above the waistline of your panties—the barrier he was about to reach past for the first time. the hesitation was visible in his body language, however his fingers eventually tugged at the fabric, preparing to take it off.

your heart was beating out of your chest as you watched suguru slowly pull the last piece of cloth away. your thighs pressed together on instinct, stopping your panties from exposing your bare cunt.

“should i stop?” suguru asks with a raised eyebrow, fingers pulling away from your underwear now that he’s seen you close your legs. you didn’t want him to stop—it’s just the nerves that made your body move on its own command;

“please— no,” you shake your head, biting your lip as you swallowed your own saliva out of pure desire. you craved him now that it’s come this far, “need you. need you so bad, suguru.”

those words caused suguru’s brain to shut down. any irrelevant thoughts were thrown out of the window; the only thing his mind was telling him to do, was to take care of your needs. your body was laid out on his bed—trusting eyes looking up at his in anticipation, pretty hands grasping onto his sheets like it’d calm you down.

“i’m all yours, sweetheart.” suguru sighs, fingertips slightly shaking as he pulls your panties down to your ankles, eyes pausing on the revelation. to say that suguru was simply rendered speechless, was an understatement. that man was on the verge of letting loose of any self-control and just dive his face right between your thighs, eating you out like he’s fantasised of doing for a while now.

“fuck.” your boyfriend closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself before opening them to smile down at you—the handsome smile that was one of the many reasons you fell in love with him, “i’ll be careful. i promise.”

naturally, you nodded along. you’ve built up enough trust between one another during the past few months to let yourself be vulnerable in front of him. the palm of his hands patted your thighs slightly before spreading them apart, once again showing your glistening folds, a slight wetness to them from your own arousal.

suguru couldn’t help but lick his lips at the sight. he’d already have devoured your dripping cunt if it wasn’t for his self-control. but, it was your first time. he couldn’t rush into things just yet.

“thank you, baby.” the dark-haired man whispered under his breath. he was showing his gratitude for the sight you allowed him to see—a sight only he had ever seen before. the only man to be able to witness the beauty before him. that fact alone made his eyes darken in lust ever so slightly.

his fingers carefully slid across your vulva, your bodily fluid coating the skin which makes him shiver and his fingers get bolder. the cute sounds that filled his ears were only making this even better for him.

the way your hips bucked up slightly into his touch—just asking for suguru to take you right then and there—was driving him insane. every vein in his body felt like it could pop with how much he was restraining his own self from acting out of line. his finger easily slid into the little hole and suguru almost couldn’t believe it; your pussy was clamping down on his finger, your insides tightly wrapped around him to the point that even he wouldn’t know if his dick would fit in.

“hnnngh, suguru, please— wan’ your cock already,” that dirty sounding sentence was one he didn’t expect to hear from a virgin. it made him shake his head with a small, delighted chuckle; you really never failed to surprise him.

“i know you do,” suguru purrs, pressing kisses against the curves of your tits whilst another finger of his joined to stretch your pussy out properly, “but i need to prep you enough if you wanna take my cock. can you be patient for me, sweetheart?”

“m’kay. gonna try..” his fingers pumped in and out of you, the feeling of them curling up deep inside you made your walls squeeze against them. you’ve played with yourself before, of course, however it was then that you discovered that nothing could ever compare to the real thing: suguru’s long and slightly girthy fingers.

just when you thought that it couldn’t get any better, you felt a third finger—not inside you--but on your clit, rubbing the small bundle of nerves like you could’ve never done to yourself. suguru was so precise and exact with his actions which showed his experience. that’s another reason of why you’ve put all your trust in him. getting your virginity taken by a sweet, older and experienced man was probably ten times better than losing it to any guy your age, who were probably only out for sex.

suguru was there to make love to you.

your back arched once you felt suguru’s fingers increase their pace, the wet and squelchy sounds echoing through the room as they got louder the more your pussy got played with, his thumb almost overstimulating your clit to the point of release already—that’s how superb your lover’s hand movements were.

“no, no. can’t have you cum on my fingers like that.” you whine once you felt suguru take his fingers back the same moment you were about to reach your first orgasm by someone else’s hands. the older man smirks at this and kisses you on the lips, pulling away slowly with your bottom lip between his teeth, letting it lightly flop back into place as he lets go; “i wanna have you cum together with me, okay?”

you couldn’t refuse such a romantic request, thus you nod. suguru smiles back at you once more before his hands move to take off his sweatpants, tossing the piece of clothing to the side. your eyes widened as you were propped on your elbows, gaze lingering on the massive bulge formed at the crotch area, his boxers not hiding much of the shape.

once the underwear was off as well—that’s when you realised that your underlying anxiousness was not for nothing. suguru’s cock sprung free, it was slightly curved near his pink tip, drops of pre-cum flowing down the length. you haven’t ever seen a dick in real life, only ever on the internet, so this had left you stunned. you didn’t know what the average size was for a man, but there’s one thing you knew for sure: suguru was definitely way above the average size.

“cat got your tongue, princess?” he teased, his hand absentmindedly pumping his cock to the sight of your naked body underneath him. suguru didn’t even know that he started doing that in front of you; it was out of pure instinct. he couldn’t hide the excitement in his body, his shaft twitching in his hand as if it desperately wanted to feel your tight cunt around it.

“uhm, s-suguru..” you stammer a bit, biting your lip as your eyes followed his hand motions which got faster once your sweet voice called out to him. something about you looking a tad bit intimidated by his size made him want to destroy your insides to mush—have you beg him to fuck you as he bullies his whole length into your poor, small cunt.

“i know, i know..” suguru reassures you, free hand giving you a few consoling head pats, “i’ll try to make it as less painful as possible, okay?”

you hum and watch how your lover settles between your legs, spreading them enough to kneel before you, upper body bending forward to place soft pecks on your forehead; he was encouraging and preparing you more in his own way.

your arms instantly wrapped around his back, sweaty palms set underneath his shoulder blades—you took a deep breath and closed your eyes, just waiting on that moment. that feeling you’ve been craving, yet also have been avoiding.

you waited for a bit, however the only sounds heard and sensations felt were the slight dent in the mattress near one side of your body, the bed creaking faintly. suguru was leaning on side of his body, one arm stretched out to open a drawer, apparently searching for a condom.

once you realised what he was doing, you shook your head and tapped his back twice to regain suguru’s attention. his gaze immediately flickered over to yours and his head tilted to the side in curiosity; “i want the full experience—no condom, please.”

his eyes widened at the request. you seemed to be dead serious, eyes glinting determinedly, lips forming a little pout— it was impossible to refuse you, although suguru knew that he had to play the role of the older, more wise and experienced lover in the back of his mind.

he parted his lips to list off the reasons why you should let him use a condom, yet the words died on his tongue. you were impossible to say ‘no’ to. not when you’re looking up at him with those pretty eyes.

“whatever princess wants, princess gets.”

suguru prodded your entrance with the fat head of his cock, circling the hole and wetting it more by using a mixture of his pre-cum and your own arousal. you took another deep breath and tried your best to hold tightly onto your boyfriend, arms wrapped tightly around his back with your face nuzzled in the crook of his neck—bracing for impact.

“tell me if it hurts too much,” suguru whispers in your ear, leaving one last kiss on your temples before pushing his hips forward, folds stretching out and apart to allow his cock through and into your pussy.

did it hurt like you expected? yes. it most certainly did. maybe even worse than you were prepared for.

“fuck— nhhh, fuckfuckfuck!” you hiss whilst your nails dig into the skin of suguru’s back, probably leaving red marks because of how much you’re clinging onto him—like your life depened on it. that’s quite literally what it felt like to you; body being forced to part and make way for suguru inside you, pussy feeling like it was burning by how big of a stretch it was to fit him in—if he actually would be able to push all of his inches into your tight hole.

“sshh, shh, it’s okay, try to relax for me, yeah?” your lover comforts you the best he could, stilling his movements for a couple seconds before gently slipping his cock further into you. it pained him to see the discomfort written over your face, however you hadn’t made any clear signs of wanting this to come to a halt. in fact, you were encouraging him to continue whenever he stopped at any indication of hurt.

“i can take it.. p-promise,” you manage to moan out. suguru breathed in deeply at your words and nodded, kissing your lips in hopes to distract you from any pain you’re feeling, “you’re too good to me, sweetheart. really.”

both of you exhaled deeply as suguru finally bottomed out, a long minute of reassurance and pushing now behind your back. your eyes had watered up a little, chest heaving as you tried to accommodate to the new feeling inside of you.

“take your time.” suguru utters gently, voice sultry and sweet whenever its directed at you. his lips graze against your cheeks, smothering the area with pecks to take your mind off anything else. the locks of black hair tickle your chin and nose, the hairtie that usually kept a good chunk of his hair in a bun now out of sight.

suguru hadn’t taken anyone’s virginity before and that’s what also made this opportunity special to him. he didn’t know how to thank you with words, so he showed his gratitude throughout his actions; lips kissing your shiny tears away, moving across your face to your forehead and eventually to your own round lips which had formed a cute pout.

you could feel suguru smile against your mouth, his tongue gently tracing the outline of your lips whilst mumbling words of affection and praise; “you’re taking it so well, baby. such a good girl for me— love you so much.”

you giggled lightly at your lover’s appreciative remarks, focusing on returning the kiss instead of the tingling feeling in your lower body. you pulled away after a bit and looked up at him with nothing but pure adoration; “i love you too, suguru.”

if suguru had the ability to freeze time, he’d want to do it during this moment, just to relive this bit over and over. he’s sure that this exact instant will be engraved into his memory for the many years to come.

and once you’ve given him the green light to move, he did it with caution, slowly but surely. his hips moved back and then forwards, girthy cock dragging along your walls at a leisurely pace, but just enough to make your pain transform into pleasure.

suguru’s big hands were placed on your hips, sometimes they’d leave their position to cup your chin and make you face him. he doesn’t want you to look away from his eyes; he’ll think you don’t like this if you do. besides, the thing he loves most about being in the missionary position, is that he’s able to hear how good he’s making you feel whilst looking into your eyes to see your face scrunch up in satisfaction. it’s so romantic and perfect. just like you.

“my little princess is so pretty.” suguru sighs in content and kisses your tears away, thrusting into your tight cunt in a comfortable pace—not too fast but not too slow, “the way you take my cock and still manage to look beautiful while doing it— you’re incredible.”

if the physical pleasure wasn’t enough, his added commentary would certainly be. you moan and whimper phrases that sound like his name over and over again; you didn’t know what else to say as your mind was foggy with the amazing sensations your body was experiencing for the first time. that was fine with suguru since all he wants was to see you enjoy yourself—this moment was for you. everything he did was for you—every thrust, every kiss, every touch.

“nhhg, too good, so good!” you mewl and leave more scratch marks across suguru’s back, ones which he didn’t mind at all. it only served as further proof of this special moment. the tip of his cock kissed the deepest parts of your insides, puffy folds parted widely to make room for more of his length until it felt like he actually was balls deep.

“mhm—you’re, haah, tight..” the once calm and collected man seemed to let loose of himself the more he felt your cunt swallow him all the way, gripping onto his dick as if you didn’t want to ever let go. suguru grunts and moves down to leave a couple hickeys across your neck, hips non-stop pushing against yours, “don’t think i can last long—fuck, yeah—you feel amazing, baby.”

your eyes roll back as the pleasure seems to build up in your stomach as well. it felt like a coil that threatened to snap at any moment and it’d release another immense wave of pleasure upon breaking. your body was on fire, sweaty and hot, just like suguru’s.

“can you cum with me, princess? can you wait and hold on for me?” he asks, and the questions sound impossible, however you could at least try your best to fulfil his desires. you’d also want nothing more than to reach your peak together with the man you loved.

“okay—mmhh—together.” you nod and your body tenses up, legs subconsciously moving to wrap around suguru’s waist, heels of your feet simultaneously tapping against his lower back along with his hip movements. you didn’t know how much longer you could hold out for as your breathing patterns changes, whiney gasps and choked up moans escaping the back of your throat as your clit bumps against his pelvis over and over.

“almost, almost—“ suguru curses through gritted teeth, his jaw clenching while yours did the opposite. your body rocked back and forth and the bed felt like it was shaking along as well. you could tell by the way suguru’s hips rolled against yours that he was close—his eyebrows were furrowed, eyes half-lidded but not closed to still hold contact with yours and his hands clutched onto your waist. all indications of his nearing climax.

“mnph, gonna cum— shit, shit, shit, i’m gonna cum—“ suguru swears under his breath a couple times more before snapping back into reality at the last few seconds. he realised once again that he didn’t have a condom on, so his first rational thought was to pull out and finish himself outside of your body.

you were also nearing your own orgasm, not thinking rationally due to the intensity of the moment, any other thoughts except for the man on top of you were thrown out of the window. you felt suguru try to pull his twitching and throbbing cock out before it could spurt its cum inside of your dripping cunt.

you whined and shook your head, pulling suguru in for a deep kiss while tightening the grasp your legs had around his hips; “w-want to feel you cum in me— want you to fill me up while i finish too.”

suguru’s breath caught in his throat, almost choking on his own saliva from your bold requests. his only rational thought instantly vanished from his mind, now all that’s left was pure love, pleasure and desire. the mental image of his cum spilling and filling your pussy to the brim drove him to the edge.

“all yours, i’m going to give it all to you, princess, yeah? fuck !” both of you relinquished in the feeling of bliss, the warmth and build up reaching its designated ending— the expected waves of pleasure washing over you both. series of soft moans, whimpers and groans filled the room as your pussy was flooded with lots of hot cum.

it was like suguru hadn’t came in years—that’s how incredible that orgasm was experienced by the dark-haired male. the same thing goes for you; your legs were shaking, hips squirming up in aftershocks as you squeezed down on suguru’s cock, quite literally milking him dry of every drop.

“nhh, haah— suguru, love,” your tired and powerless whispers caught his attention immediately. your trembling hand held onto his cheek in attempt to make him look at you. suguru’s fingers curled around your wrist, turning your hand away from his face and to the side so he’ll have access to your palm. his lips left a ticklish trail of pecks on them until his mouth found its home: your lips.

the two of you exchanged deep, exhausted breaths, your boyfriend eventually pulling out and rolling onto his side to cradle you into his arms—hand placed on the back of your head to rest your body against his chest. the following seconds were spent cuddling as you tried to regain composure.

“you were amazing.” suguru sighs, chin resting on top of your head whilst his hand rubbed your bare back in comfort, “are you okay, sweetheart? nothing feeling off or anything of that sorts?”

you shake your head and snuggle up against your lover, content with how things are right now. the afterglow of your little session—of your first time, made you happier than ever. you couldn’t believe it’d feel this good. maybe it’s due to the one you’ve lost your virginity to.

“i’m okay.” you mumble and lift your head up to look suguru in the eyes, faces only inches away from each other. there were no words in the dictionary that could describe how you two felt. the closest word to explain it would be flawless.

“i’m glad, baby. thank you for trusting me.” suguru flashes you a small smile and strokes your head. you stay like that, bodies intertwined in a deep and comfortable hug, whispers of sweet nothings filling your ears and subtle gestures of love making you feel secure.

a couple minutes later and suguru noticed how you started to doze off. he chuckled to himself before pulling away from your hug and standing up, only to have you pout and complain about the loss of warmth.

“i’m just going to clean you up, love.” the soft-spoken man utters to you, laughing quietly at the adorable state you were in at the moment. you were so dependent on him.

“should i prepare us a warm, relaxing bubble bath as well?” he asks, squatting down near the edge of his bed and taking your hands in his, maintaining eye contact as per usual.

“that’d be nice.” you nod and feel your eyelids close slowly, “can’t promise i won’t fall asleep, though.”

suguru lets out a soft exhale through his nose, corner of his lips curling upwards at your little comment. he couldn’t believe he ended up dating such an unbelievably wonderful girl. it’s a blessing in his life of curses.

“i’ll make sure to at least clean you up if you do fall asleep, don’t worry. you’re safe with me.”

you were sure he was an angel sent down from heaven. it was more than clear to you—even if it may not be to many others out there.

“thank you, suguru.” you murmur as your body relaxes into the soft mattress, “i love you.”

“i love you too. more than you could imagine.”

#ෆ : choose your fate.#jjk smut #jjk x reader #geto smut #geto x reader #jjk x you #geto x you #getou suguru x reader #jjk fic

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reidmarieprentiss · 1 month

Text

i love you

Summary: Spencer falls in love with a famous singer, Spencer also has a hard time controlling his jealousy.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x pop star! fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst

Warnings/Includes: insecurity, cheating accusations, arguing, lack of trust, regrets, being famous, paparazzi, bestie Billie Eilish

Word count: 13k

a/n: helloooo hehe sorry about the angst again butttt i have ideas for a happier story line if y'all want a part 2 !!!!

update! part two is here!!!

main masterlist

February, 2006

In the heart of New York City, where towering skyscrapers meet the pulse of creativity, you find yourself stepping into the sleek, modern office of a prestigious publishing house. Today’s interview isn’t just any ordinary sit-down; it’s being conducted by the chief editor themselves—a rare honor reserved for only the most influential figures. As one of the world’s most celebrated pop stars, the stakes are high, and they��ve rolled out the red carpet for you, eager to delve into the stories behind your meteoric rise and iconic career.

You had barely wrapped up your latest thought, answering a question about the creative process behind your new album, when a soft knock interrupted the flow of your interview. The chief editor, who had been so focused on your words, paused, a small frown creasing their brow as the door cracked open.

The person who had greeted you and your team at the front desk earlier poked their head into the room, eyes wide with apology and urgency. “Hi! I’m so sorry, but we have two agents here from the FBI. They say they are working on a case that could involve some of our publications. What should I tell them?”

The editor’s eyes flicked back to you, concern knitting their features together. “Y/N, I am so so sorry. Do you mind if I step out for one second?”

You offered them a reassuring smile, waving a hand dismissively. “No! Not at all! Take care of whatever you need.”

“Thank you, thank you,” the editor breathed, clearly relieved as they stood and followed the receptionist out of the room, leaving you alone for the moment.

After a few minutes, they returned, apologizing profusely for the interruption, but you could see the tension still etched on their face, the slight edge of distraction in their voice. The rest of the interview passed without incident, but once it wrapped up, you couldn’t shake the curiosity bubbling inside you.

As you gathered your things, you politely declined their offer to show you to the bathroom. "Thank you, but I think I can manage," you said with a smile, wanting to stretch your legs a bit and maybe take a peek at the source of the earlier interruption.

After wandering down the corridor for a minute or two, it became clear that you had no idea where you were going. The building was far larger than you anticipated, with identical doors lining each hallway. You turned a corner, hoping you were heading in the right direction when you noticed a room with an open door.

Inside, two men stood by a large table filled with neatly organized files and documents. Their presence was commanding, unmistakably official, and more than a little bit attractive. One was tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair, his expression serious as he sifted through a stack of papers. The other, slightly younger, had sharp, intelligent eyes behind a pair of glasses, his movements precise as he carefully handled what appeared to be an older document.

You hesitated for a moment, not wanting to intrude on whatever important work they were doing, but your need to find the bathroom was becoming more pressing by the second.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped into the doorway and cleared your throat softly. “Hi! I’m sorry to bother you, but do you happen to know where the bathroom is?”

Both men looked up, their attention snapping to you as if they had been pulled out of deep concentration. Aaron Hotchner blinked in surprise, his composed demeanor faltering just slightly before he offered a polite, practiced smile. “No bother at all. I don’t believe I know where the bathroom is. Reid?”

Spencer Reid barely looked up from his work, his attention already drifting back to the papers in front of him. “Out the door to the left, down the hall, last door on the right,” he mumbled, his voice soft and almost distracted.

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. Oh, he was pretty—and not immediately bowled over by your presence? You liked a challenge. “Oh! Thank you!” you chirped, your tone a bit more enthusiastic than you intended, but it wasn’t every day you met someone who didn’t immediately fall into the rhythm of your world.

After finding the bathroom, you couldn’t shake the thought of that cute, nerdy man with the sharp intellect and distracted charm. You quickly texted your assistant, Dylan—who was also your brother—asking him to pick up two coffees and some pastries, and to meet you on the floor where you were currently stationed.

When the delivery arrived, you approached the room where the men were working once again. You knocked lightly on the doorframe to announce your presence. “Hi! Thanks again for helping me out earlier. I thought maybe you two could use a little pick-me-up,” you said, holding out the goods with a bright smile.

Aaron looked at the offering with a hint of suspicion, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed your motives. “Wow. That’s very kind of you, thank you,” he said, his voice polite but guarded.

You quickly picked up on the hesitation and offered an explanation. “Sorry, I know it’s a little odd to get gifts from strangers. I just like paying it forward. You helped me, so I do something kind for you, and maybe you’ll do something kind for someone else later.”

Aaron’s expression softened at your explanation, a hint of warmth creeping into his eyes. “I like that. Thank you again,” he said, this time with more sincerity.

Meanwhile, Spencer still hadn’t fully reacted, offering only a tight-lipped smile and a nod of acknowledgment. You handed the coffee and pastry to Aaron before turning your attention to Spencer, who was already drifting back into his work. “Here,” you said, holding out the coffee to him.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, glancing up briefly. “Any sugar?”

“Uh, no, just black. I’m sure there’s some in the break room…?” you offered, tilting your head slightly in question.

He nodded again, his attention already starting to slip back to the papers in front of him. “Alright… I’ll just put this here,” you said, placing his pastry on top of what appeared to be his satchel, casually slipping a note underneath the paper bag. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself—maybe he’d notice, or maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, you’d planted a seed of curiosity in that brilliant mind of his, and that was enough for now.

—

Spencer's eyes lingered on the note, the neat, playful handwriting contrasting sharply with the serious documents scattered across his desk. He blinked a few times, trying to piece together the brief interaction he had with you earlier, but the details were frustratingly fuzzy. He’d been so engrossed in his work that he barely registered your presence, let alone your face. The only thing he could recall was the faint scent of coffee and the sound of your cheerful voice, but nothing more.

Across the room, Hotch was watching the scene unfold with a faint smile, his amusement barely concealed. He hadn’t known who you were either, but he found the situation oddly endearing. Spencer, brilliant and socially awkward as he was, seemed utterly baffled by the note in his hand. Hotch couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head at his younger colleague’s bewilderment.

“Staring at it won’t help,” Hotch advised, his tone light. “Maybe you should call?”

“I don’t know her,” Spencer replied, his brow furrowing as he continued to scrutinize the note as if it held some hidden meaning he was missing.

Hotch leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest with a knowing look. “You could get to know her,” he suggested, the amusement in his voice evident. “She obviously went out of her way to reach out to you. It’s not every day someone leaves their number like that.”

Spencer hesitated, his mind racing through all the possible outcomes of making that call. On one hand, he was intensely curious about you—who you were, why you’d left the note, and what you’d seen in him that made you interested. On the other hand, the idea of reaching out to someone he didn’t know, especially in such a personal way, was daunting.

But Hotch had a point. He always did.

Spencer glanced down at the note again, reading the words over and over as if they would change with each pass.

Give me a call when you’re not so busy? Promise I’m more interesting than some old prints <3 Xxx xxx xxxx.

There was a lightness to your words, a promise of something different, something outside the usual routine that consumed him. Maybe, just maybe, it was worth the risk to find out what that was. Taking a deep breath, Spencer carefully folded the note and slipped it into his pocket, the decision made, even if he didn’t fully understand it yet.

Hotch’s smile widened just a fraction as he watched Spencer’s resolve take shape. “Good choice,” he said simply, returning his attention to his own work, leaving Spencer to contemplate when—and how—he’d make that call.

—

March, 2006

Life as a pop star was nothing short of chaotic, especially when you were barely 24 and on the brink of releasing yet another album. Your days were a whirlwind of recording studios, press conferences, interviews, and the constant need to stay relevant on social media. It was a lot to handle, but having your brother, Dylan, by your side made it all feel a little more manageable. He was your rock, keeping things running smoothly even when the demands of fame threatened to overwhelm you.

Currently, you found yourself back in LA, swept up in a relentless schedule that Dylan had meticulously organized. The days blurred together—back-to-back interviews, recording sessions that stretched into the early hours of the morning, and brief moments snatched away for obligatory social media posts. In the midst of all this, the memory of the mystery man you’d given your number to in New York had faded into the background. It was easier not to dwell on it, to keep your expectations low. After all, not everyone was going to reciprocate your interest, and you’d learned early on in life not to take things personally.

Weeks passed, and your mind was consumed by the demands of your career. The mystery man became just that—a mystery you tucked away, almost forgotten amidst the chaos. That is, until one quiet evening in your LA apartment, when you were finally able to unwind, your phone buzzed with a call from an unknown number.

You stared at the screen, your instincts urging you not to answer. In your line of work, you never knew when or if your number might get leaked, and you weren’t about to take any chances. But as soon as the call ended, curiosity got the better of you. Who could it have been? You needed to know.

With a quick text, you reached out to your tech-savvy friend, Kade. Their enthusiasm for solving puzzles like this made them the perfect person to track down the owner of that mysterious number. Within minutes, Kade had the information—and a picture too. When the image popped up on your screen, your heart skipped a beat.

It was him. The mystery man from New York. The one you’d thought might never call.

Without a second thought, you hit the call button, your nerves tingling with anticipation as you listened to the line ring. Finally, after weeks of wondering, you were about to hear his voice again.

—

Spencer stared at his phone, the dial tone echoing in his ear before it abruptly ended, signaling that the call had gone unanswered. He felt a pang of disappointment, a weight settling in his chest that he couldn’t quite shake. He’d taken the leap, albeit a few weeks late, and now it seemed like it might have been for nothing. Maybe you’d forgotten him, moved on with your life.

He let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping as he placed the phone back on the table. It had taken him so long to muster the courage to call you, to push past his own reservations and insecurities. He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, trying to convince himself that it was just a phone call, just a moment in time that didn’t have to mean anything.

But deep down, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss, like he’d let something slip through his fingers before it even had a chance to begin. Spencer was no stranger to disappointment, but this time, it felt different. It felt like an opportunity he might never get back.

Spencer sat there, lost in his thoughts, the weight of his insecurities pressing down on him. His mind wandered through all the reasons why you might not have answered—maybe you really had forgotten him, maybe you had better things to do, or maybe he was just one of a hundred people you’d encountered that day. The more he thought about it, the more his doubts began to take root, spreading through him like a slow, creeping fog.

Then, breaking through the haze of his thoughts, his phone began to ring on the table in front of him. The sudden sound jolted him from his reverie, and for a moment, he just stared at the screen, as if unsure whether it was real. The number flashing across the screen was the same unknown one he’d dialed just moments ago.

His heart raced, a mix of hope and disbelief surging through him. Could it be you? Had you actually called him back? He hesitated, his fingers hovering over the phone, almost afraid to answer. But the ringing continued, insistent and almost impatient, pulling him back into the present.

With a deep breath, he swiped to answer, bringing the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he said, his voice a little shaky, betraying the nervousness he felt.

“Hi! Is this Spencer?” Your voice came through the line, bright and unmistakably warm, instantly cutting through the tension that had been building within him.

For a moment, Spencer was too stunned to respond, his mind scrambling to catch up with the fact that you were actually on the other end of the line. “Yes, it’s Spencer,” he finally managed to say, his voice steadier now, though his heart was still pounding.

“I’m so sorry I missed your call earlier!” you continued, your tone light and genuine. “I didn’t recognize the number when I saw it. But I’m really glad you called. I’ve been hoping to hear from you!”

Spencer’s doubts began to melt away, replaced by a growing sense of relief and excitement. You hadn’t forgotten him, after all. You were as curious about him as he was about you. “No, no, it’s fine,” he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

“Of course I remember you! How could I forget the cute, smart guy who helped me find the bathroom?” you teased lightly, your laughter filling the space between you and putting Spencer at ease.

Spencer couldn’t help but laugh along with you, the tension in his chest finally easing. “Well, I’m glad I could help,” he said, the smile now fully blossoming on his face. “So… what’s up?”

“I was wondering if you’d be free sometime soon? I’d love to actually get to know you better, maybe over coffee or something? I should be back in New York in a few weeks!” Your invitation was casual, but the sincerity in your voice was something Spencer couldn’t ignore.

“I would like that,” Spencer began, hesitating slightly before continuing. “Um, I actually live in Virginia…”

“Oh! That’s no problem, I can come to Virginia,” you replied without missing a beat, your tone so effortlessly confident and reassuring that it caught Spencer off guard.

He blinked, momentarily confused. What kind of life did you lead that allowed you such flexibility, such willingness to drop everything for a spontaneous trip? “Are you sure? It’s a three-hour train ride,” he said, the logical part of his brain struggling to grasp the ease with which you offered.

“No problem! I’m in Los Angeles right now, but I should have a bit of freedom in, say, two weeks? Would that work for you?” Your words were filled with a casualness that suggested this kind of thing was just another day in your life.

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” Spencer responded, still wrapping his mind around the idea that you were so eager to see him, despite the distance and the logistics involved.

“Amazing! Are weekends better for you?” you asked, the excitement in your voice making it clear how much you were looking forward to this.

“Yes, weekends are good,” Spencer confirmed, feeling a mixture of excitement and nervousness bubbling up inside him.

“Okay, Spencer,” you said, and he could practically hear the smile in your voice. “How about you pick a time and a café in Virginia for Saturday two weeks from now, and I’ll meet you there?”

“Uh, sure, I can do that,” Spencer replied, a bit overwhelmed but in the best way possible. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

“Great! I can’t wait,” you said, your enthusiasm palpable even over the phone. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

As you ended the call with a cheerful goodbye, Spencer found himself staring at his phone again, but this time, the feeling of defeat was replaced with something entirely different—a sense of anticipation, of possibility. He had two weeks to figure out the perfect place to meet, and the thought of seeing you again made his heart race in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

—

Two weeks flew by, and soon you were landing in New York, excitement and nerves swirling inside you. Instead of flying to Virginia, you chose the train, savoring the slower pace after the constant rush of airports in your career.

As the train glided smoothly along, a calm settled over you, the rhythmic sound of the tracks providing a rare moment of peace. You were anxious about meeting someone new, but also excited—Spencer seemed down-to-earth and refreshingly different from the usual whirlwind of fame. And he was undeniably attractive, with a quiet, intelligent charm that had caught your attention.

Though your security detail accompanied you, the ride was peaceful. Most passengers didn’t mind having a pop star in their car; a few asked for autographs and pictures, which you happily provided. For the most part, you were left alone to chat with your security and enjoy the journey.

—

Arriving at the café was agonizing for Spencer. His nerves had been on edge the entire day, and he’d debated countless times whether he should even show up. The closer he got, the more his anxiety spiked. What if you didn’t show up? What if you were a soon-to-be unsub? His mind raced through every worst-case scenario, each one more unsettling than the last.

As he approached the café, he felt a knot tighten in his stomach. What if you just wanted to hurt him? What if you had forgotten about him entirely? The uncertainty gnawed at him, making each step feel heavier than the last. It took every ounce of his willpower to push through the doubt and walk through the door, hoping—desperately—that this wasn’t all a mistake.

But to his surprise, when Spencer finally entered the café, he saw you already there, seated at a small table near the window. You were early, a black coffee in front of you, with a canister full of sugar beside it, waiting to be poured. The sight of you, so relaxed and genuinely present, eased some of his lingering fears.

You had arrived first, intentionally choosing a slightly hidden booth and quietly informing the staff of your presence to avoid any unnecessary attention. It wasn’t about having a big head, but rather wanting to keep the date as normal as possible, just in case someone recognized you and caused a scene.

“Spencer! Hi!” you greeted him warmly, your smile lighting up the room as you waved him over.

“Hello,” he responded, raising a hand in a shy wave as he walked toward you, feeling a mix of relief and nervousness.

“It’s so good to see you!” you exclaimed, your enthusiasm evident. “Can I hug you?”

“Um,” Spencer hesitated for a split second, caught off guard by your openness. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the nerves. “Yes, sure.”

You stood up and gently wrapped your arms around him, your embrace warm and welcoming. Spencer felt the tension in his shoulders start to melt away, the simple act reminding him that maybe, just maybe, this could turn out better than he’d feared as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

“So, I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead and got you a coffee,” you said, gesturing to the cup in front of him. “I wasn’t sure how sweet you like it, so I just asked for a whole thing of sugar.”

Spencer couldn’t believe how thoughtful you were, the small gesture meaning more to him than you might realize. “Oh, thank you so much,” he replied, his voice soft with gratitude. “That’s perfect.”

He felt a warmth in his chest, a sense of comfort in knowing that you had already taken the time to consider his preferences. It was a simple act, but to Spencer, it spoke volumes about the kind of person you were.

Spencer took a seat across from you, feeling the warmth from your earlier hug still lingering. You watched as he carefully added just the right amount of sugar to his coffee, stirring it with a quiet focus that made you smile.

"So," you began, breaking the silence with a gentle tone, "how have you been? I hope your day wasn't too stressful."

Spencer looked up, meeting your eyes with a small, appreciative smile. "It’s been… a bit nerve-wracking, to be honest. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I’m really glad I came."

You leaned in slightly, your expression softening. "I’m glad you did too. I’ve been looking forward to this."

He felt a flutter in his chest at your words, the sincerity in your voice easing some of the anxiety that had been gnawing at him. “I’ve been looking forward to it too, though I was worried I might say something awkward.”

You laughed softly, the sound warm and reassuring. “Don’t worry about that. I like awkward—it’s honest. Besides, I’m probably just as nervous as you are.”

Spencer looked at you with surprise. “Really? You seem so confident.”

You shrugged, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “I guess I’ve had a lot of practice pretending to be. But trust me, I get nervous too, especially when I’m meeting someone new.”

There was a pause as your words sank in, making Spencer feel a bit more at ease. “Well, if it helps, you’re doing a great job of making me feel comfortable.”

Your smile widened, your eyes sparkling with warmth. “Good, that’s exactly what I was hoping for. I just want us to enjoy this, no pressure, just two people getting to know each other.”

Spencer nodded, feeling the last of his nerves start to fade away. “That sounds nice. I think we’re off to a pretty good start.”

You raised your coffee cup in a mock toast, your grin contagious. “Here’s to a good start, then.”

Spencer clinked his cup against yours, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “To a good start.”

After you both took a sip of your coffee, the conversation started to flow more naturally. Eventually, Spencer asked, “What do you do for work?”

It was at that moment you realized that Spencer genuinely didn’t know who you were—he wasn’t just pretending for your sake. “Oh! Um, I sing,” you replied, trying to keep your tone casual.

“You sing? That’s so great! What kind of music?” Spencer’s enthusiasm was genuine, and it warmed your heart.

“Mostly pop, but I’ve been called indie pop before too,” you explained, trying not to let your nerves show.

Spencer nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t listen to much pop, but I would love to come to one of your shows sometime. Where do you perform?”

You laughed nervously, not sure how to break it to him. “Ha ha, well, a little bit of everywhere? I could invite you next time I perform close by!”

“That would be great,” Spencer said with a dopey smile, clearly pleased with the idea.

“So, what do you do, Spencer?” you asked, eager to shift the focus.

“I work for the FBI,” he replied, almost bashfully.

Your eyes widened in surprise. “That is so much cooler!”

“Oh, well, thank you,” Spencer said, blushing slightly at the compliment.

“Do you take down bad guys?” you asked, leaning in with genuine curiosity.

Spencer chuckled softly. “Yeah, something like that. I’m a profiler, so I help catch criminals by understanding how they think.”

You couldn’t help but be impressed. “Wow, that’s amazing! You’re like a real-life Sherlock Holmes.”

Spencer’s eyes lit up at your words, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “I think that’s the best compliment I have ever gotten,” he said, clearly touched by the comparison.

You smiled back, pleased to see how much the compliment meant to him. “Well, it’s true. It sounds like you have a pretty incredible job.”

Spencer’s smile softened, a hint of shyness returning. “Thank you. It’s not always easy, but it’s rewarding.”

You could see the passion he had for his work, and it only made you more curious to learn about the man behind the profiler. “I have a feeling you’re really good at what you do,” you added, feeling more drawn to him with each passing moment.

As the conversation continued, you felt a growing connection with Spencer, charmed by his sincerity and humility. It was refreshing to talk to someone who saw you as just a person, rather than the pop star you usually were.

—

The date was, in a word, phenomenal. You and Spencer clicked in a way that felt effortless, the conversation flowing naturally, and the time slipping by unnoticed. By the end of it, you both agreed to meet again the next time you were close by. Spencer left the café feeling lighter, with a genuine smile on his face. From what he gathered, you traveled often for work but mostly lived in New York, which suited him just fine. The idea of seeing you again was something he looked forward to.

Monday morning came around, and as Spencer walked into the office, he barely had time to settle in before Derek Morgan sauntered over, a teasing grin on his face. “So, pretty boy,” Derek started, leaning against Spencer’s desk, “heard from Hotch you had a hot date this weekend.”

Spencer felt a blush creep up his neck, trying to play it cool as he adjusted his tie. “It wasn’t… I mean, yeah, I had a date,” he admitted, though he couldn’t suppress the small smile that tugged at his lips.

Derek raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this. “And? How’d it go? Are we gonna see wedding bells soon, or what?”

Spencer chuckled, shaking his head. “It went well, really well. We’re planning to meet again soon.”

Derek gave him a playful nudge. “Look at you, Pretty Boy, out here dating like a pro. So, what’s she like?”

Spencer hesitated, his mind racing back to the date. “She’s… incredible. Smart, funny, down-to-earth. I really enjoyed spending time with her.”

Derek nodded approvingly. “Sounds like a keeper. Just make sure you bring her around sometime so the rest of us can vet her properly.”

Spencer laughed, rolling his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As Derek walked away, Spencer found himself thinking back to the date, the smile still lingering on his face. He had no idea what the future held, but for now, he was more than happy with the way things were unfolding.

—

May, 2006

Even though your schedule was packed, you managed to carve out moments in your day to text Spencer. It became a little ritual—finding those brief pauses between studio sessions, interviews, or flights to send him a quick message. Sometimes it was a simple Good morning! or Hope your day’s going well! Other times, you’d share something funny or interesting that happened, enjoying the way his replies always seemed to brighten your day.

Spencer, in turn, did his best to keep up with the texts, even when his work took him deep into intense cases. He found himself looking forward to your messages, the small glimpses into your life offering a welcome distraction from the often grim realities of his job.

A month after your first date, the stars finally aligned again, and you both found yourselves free at the same time. Spencer had been looking forward to seeing you, but as luck would have it, the BAU team had already planned a bar night for that weekend. There was no way he could bow out without raising suspicions, so instead, he decided to invite you along.

He texted you with a mix of excitement and nerves.

Hey, I know we’ve been planning to meet up again, and I was wondering if you’d like to come out with me and my team this weekend? We’re having a bar night, and I’d really like for you to meet everyone.

That sounds like so much fun! I’d love to meet your team. Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.

Spencer smiled as he read your reply, feeling a sense of relief and excitement all at once. It wasn’t what he’d originally planned, but he realized that introducing you to his team felt like a natural next step. Plus, he was curious to see how you’d fit in with the people who had become like family to him.

As the weekend approached, Spencer found himself growing more and more eager to see you again. This time, he wasn’t just looking forward to spending time with you—he was excited to see how you’d interact with the people who meant so much to him.

—

You decided to meet Spencer at his apartment before heading to the bar, a decision that filled you with both excitement and nerves. The idea of seeing him again, of spending time with him in a more casual, intimate setting, was thrilling, but it also made your heart race with anticipation. You stood outside his door, taking a deep breath to steady yourself before finally mustering the courage to knock.

Meanwhile, your security team was stationed discreetly at the base of the building, sitting in their cars to avoid drawing attention. You didn’t want to alarm Spencer with an obvious security presence, especially since he didn’t know the full extent of your fame. They had already done a thorough sweep of the bar, learning all the exits and identifying the best spots to keep watch over you without intruding on your evening.

As you waited for Spencer to answer the door, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter of nerves in your stomach. This was a big step—meeting his team, blending your two worlds, and trying to keep the balance between your public life and the private connection you were building with him. But as the door opened and you saw Spencer’s familiar, warm smile, those nerves began to ease.

“Hey,” he greeted you, his voice soft and welcoming.

“Hey,” you replied, returning his smile, feeling a wave of relief wash over you. Being here with him, seeing that look in his eyes, reminded you why you were doing this. The rest of the world could wait; tonight was about the two of you.

Spencer stepped aside to let you in, his apartment cozy and inviting. “You look great,” he said, his tone slightly shy as he took in your appearance.

“Thanks,” you replied, feeling your cheeks warm. “You do too.”

There was a brief pause, the two of you just standing there, enjoying the moment. Then, Spencer gestured towards the door. “Ready to go? The team’s probably already at the bar.”

“Yeah, let’s do this,” you said, feeling a surge of confidence as you linked your arm with his.

—

As you and Spencer arrived at the bar, your nerves returned with full force. You had been feeling confident earlier, but now, faced with meeting his entire team, the reality of blending your world with his hit you hard. Spencer seemed to sense your hesitation, offering you a reassuring smile as he led you inside.

“Hey, guys, this is Y/N,” Spencer said, introducing you to his team with a hint of pride in his voice. “Y/N, this is my team.”

Before anyone else could say a word, Penelope Garcia practically barreled through the group, her eyes wide with excitement. “Oh. My. God. Y/N Y/L? I love your music! How did you two meet?”

You couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm, though it made you a little self-conscious. “Um, we met at a publishing house in New York,” you said, trying to keep things casual.

Spencer looked adorably confused as he turned to Penelope. “How do you know Y/N’s music?”

Penelope’s face lit up even more. “I’ve been a fan for years!”

You felt a warm blush creeping up your neck. “Thank you so much,” you said kindly, appreciating her support. But you were also eager to shift the focus away from your celebrity status. “But, uh, let’s not focus on me. I want to get to know all of you.”

The team exchanged glances, a mixture of curiosity and amusement playing on their faces. It was clear that they were intrigued by the dynamic between you and Spencer, but they respected your wish to keep the conversation light and inclusive.

“Fair enough,” Derek said with a grin, extending his hand to you. “I’m Derek. It’s nice to meet you.”

You shook his hand, relieved that the introductions were moving forward. “Nice to meet you too, Derek.”

As each member of the team introduced themselves, you felt the initial wave of nerves begin to subside. They were a friendly, welcoming group, and their easy going nature made it easier for you to relax. Spencer stayed close by your side, his presence comforting as you navigated this new and somewhat intimidating social landscape.

Unfortunately, as pleasant as the evening had been, things took a sharp turn when it was time for you and Spencer to leave the bar. The moment you stepped outside, you were met with the overwhelming sight of a large crowd waiting by the entrance, their faces eager, some shouting your name. The flashes of cameras lit up the night as paparazzi swarmed, snapping photos in a chaotic frenzy.

“Y/N, come with us,” your head security guard, Emerson, called out firmly, their voice carrying over the noise. They were already moving to shield you from the crowd, their team efficiently surrounding both you and Spencer.

Spencer was beyond confused, his eyes wide as he took in the scene. The crowd, the screaming, the relentless camera flashes—it was all a world he had never experienced before. One moment, the two of you were having a quiet night out with his team, and the next, you were being hustled into a black SUV by your security detail.

As the vehicle sped away, leaving the chaos behind, Spencer finally found his voice. “Y/N, what the hell was that?” he asked, his tone filled with concern and bewilderment.

You let out a sigh, knowing this was something you’d have to explain sooner or later. “I’m so sorry, Spencer,” you began, turning to him with an apologetic look. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. Someone must have recognized me and tipped off the paparazzi.”

Spencer frowned, still trying to piece everything together. “Recognized you? But why would…?” He trailed off, the reality slowly dawning on him. “Wait… Are you famous?”

You nodded, feeling a mix of guilt and apprehension. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. That’s why there was a crowd outside—they wanted pictures and autographs, that sort of thing.”

Spencer sat back in his seat, processing what you had just told him. “I had no idea,” he said softly, a hint of shock still in his voice.

“I know,” you admitted, your voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t want it to be a big deal between us. I just wanted you to get to know me for who I am, not because of my career.”

He looked at you, his expression a mix of understanding and concern. “Y/N, I don’t care about any of that. I just… I wasn’t prepared for this.”

“I understand,” you said, reaching out to gently take his hand. “I should have been more upfront with you. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

Spencer squeezed your hand, his gaze softening. “It’s okay. I just need a little time to process everything.”

You nodded, grateful for his understanding. “Of course. We can talk more about it when you’re ready. I don’t want this to change anything between us.”

Spencer gave you a small smile, the initial shock beginning to fade. “It won’t,” he assured you. “I still want to get to know you, the real you. We’ll figure this out together.”

His words brought you a sense of relief, and as the car continued to drive away from the chaotic scene, you felt a renewed sense of hope for what lay ahead.

—

The security team swiftly brought you and Spencer to a hotel with a private parking garage, ensuring that you wouldn’t be followed or harassed any further. It was a relief to be away from the chaos, but you couldn’t help feeling bad for dragging Spencer into your world so abruptly.

“I’m sorry, Spencer,” you said softly as you both exited the car. “Do you mind hanging out here for a bit until everything dies down? Or I can have Emerson take you home.”

“No, no, I want to stay with you,” he quickly replied, his sincerity evident.

You smiled, grateful for his support. “Okay.”

The two of you were guided up to the room where you’d be staying for the weekend. Your security team stood guard outside, some doing security sweeps to ensure the area was safe. Inside the room, the atmosphere was much calmer, but you could sense Spencer’s curiosity lingering.

“Alright, so tell me about it. How famous are you?” Spencer asked, his tone light but clearly curious.

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to answer, but because you hated that question. Measuring your fame felt strange and impersonal. You valued your fans and appreciated the love they showed you, but fame was such a nebulous concept. “Uhhh…”

Spencer quickly backtracked, noticing your discomfort. “Sorry, that was a weird question.”

“No, it’s okay,” you reassured him. “I, uh, guess I have quite the fan base.”

Spencer nodded thoughtfully, sensing there was more to your reluctance. “Would it bother you if I looked you up when I get home?”

You couldn’t help but smile at his thoughtfulness. “That’s fine, Spencer. Just… don’t judge me too harshly.”

He looked at you with that soft, earnest expression that always seemed to put you at ease. “I would never.”

“I know, I know,” you said, letting out a small sigh. “It’s just—there’s a lot of nasty rumors, and bad things people say about me. Just, keep an open mind?”

Spencer’s gaze was steady as he reached out to take your hand. “Y/N, I like you. I don’t care what some idiot says about you on the internet, okay?”

His words were like a balm to your nerves, and you felt a warmth spread through you. “Okay. I like you too,” you admitted, feeling a surge of affection for the man sitting beside you.

Spencer’s eyes softened even further, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice low and full of hope.

“Please,” you whispered, your heart racing.

Spencer leaned in, his hand gently cradling your cheek as he pressed his lips to yours in a tender, heartfelt kiss. The world outside faded away, leaving just the two of you in that quiet, perfect moment. It was a kiss that spoke of understanding, of acceptance, and of something that had the potential to grow into something truly special.

And so began the beautiful relationship between you and Spencer. Every chance you got was spent together, each moment building the foundation for something truly special.

—

June, 2006

As you and Spencer strolled hand in hand through the grand halls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the world around you seemed to blur into the background. The marble floors echoed softly with your footsteps, and the air was filled with the quiet hum of visitors lost in their own reverence for the art surrounding them. But for you, the real masterpiece was right beside you, his voice animated as he guided you through the exhibits.

“And here,” Spencer said, his eyes lighting up as he gestured toward a stunning Greek statue, “we have a marble sculpture of Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty. What’s fascinating is that this particular piece is from the Hellenistic period, where artists began to explore more dynamic poses and emotions in their work.”

You looked up at the statue, trying to see it through Spencer’s eyes. “It’s incredible,” you murmured, squeezing his hand lightly. “You make it all sound so alive, like we’re stepping back in time.”

Spencer smiled, a soft blush coloring his cheeks. “I’ve always loved how art can connect us to the past. It’s like a conversation across centuries, where every brushstroke or chisel mark tells a story.”

You could hear the passion in his voice, and it made your heart swell with affection. “You know, I’ve been here before, but it’s never felt this… magical,” you admitted, looking up at him.

Spencer’s eyes softened as he gazed back at you. “It’s not just the art,” he said quietly. “It’s who you’re experiencing it with.”

You felt a warm blush rise to your cheeks, his words sending a flutter through your heart. “You’re amazing, you know that?” you said with a smile.

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “I’m just a guy who likes art history,” he replied modestly.

“And I’m just a girl who’s falling for that guy who likes art history,” you teased, leaning in to rest your head on his shoulder as you continued your walk.

Spencer’s smile grew as he squeezed your hand a little tighter. “Then I’d say we’re both pretty lucky.”

—

August, 2006

The weekend in Los Angeles felt like a breath of fresh air, a pause from the relentless pace of your lives. The sun was warm against your skin as you and Spencer strolled along the beach, the Pacific Ocean stretching out endlessly before you. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore provided a soothing backdrop to the easy conversation that flowed between you.

“I never imagined LA would be so…relaxed,” Spencer remarked, his gaze drifting out over the water. “I always thought of it as this fast-paced, high-energy place.”

You smiled, nudging him playfully with your shoulder. “It can be, but there’s a whole other side to it too. It’s not all about Hollywood and traffic. Sometimes, it’s just about finding those quiet corners where you can breathe.”

Spencer nodded, looking thoughtful. “I can see why you like it here. It’s like the city has this dual nature—busy and vibrant, but also peaceful when you know where to look.”

“Exactly,” you agreed, your hand slipping into his. “I wanted to show you that part of my life, the part that isn’t all about work and appearances. Just… the real me.”

He turned to you, his expression softening. “I like the real you. I mean, I liked you before, but getting to see this side of you…it makes me feel closer to you.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you squeezed his hand gently. “I feel the same way. It’s nice to just…be with you, without any distractions.”

The two of you continued walking, the sand shifting beneath your feet as the conversation turned to lighter topics. You talked about everything from your favorite movies to childhood memories, finding joy in the simplicity of sharing these little pieces of your lives.

Later, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, you found a cozy spot at one of your favorite hidden restaurants, tucked away from the bustling streets. The atmosphere was intimate, the kind of place where you could lose yourself in conversation without worrying about being recognized. The soft candlelight flickered between you, casting a warm glow over the table.

“This place is amazing,” Spencer said as he looked around, taking in the rustic charm of the restaurant. “It’s like a little secret.”

You grinned, pleased that he liked it. “It’s one of my favorites. The food is great, but it’s the atmosphere that keeps me coming back. It’s like a little escape from everything.”

As the evening wore on, you both savored the delicious food and each other’s company, the rest of the world fading into the background. The conversation flowed easily, and you found yourself laughing more than you had in a long time, Spencer’s wit and intelligence making every moment more enjoyable.

By the time you made your way back to the beach for a final stroll under the stars, you felt a deep sense of contentment. The city’s vibrant energy had melted into the tranquility of the night, and it was just the two of you, walking hand in hand along the shore.

“I could get used to this,” Spencer said softly, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

“Me too,” you replied, leaning into him as you walked. “I wish we could stay here forever.”

Spencer smiled, a serene look on his face as he glanced down at you. “We can always come back. Maybe this could be our little escape.”

You looked up at him, your heart fluttering at the thought. “I’d like that.”

—

September, 2006

Spencer stood in the audience, his heart swelling with pride as he watched you perform, captivated by the way you commanded the stage. The lights bathed you in a warm glow, and your powerful, confident presence mesmerized the entire crowd. To Spencer, it was like seeing a new side of you, one that was awe-inspiring yet deeply connected to the person he knew so well—the one who shared quiet moments and deep conversations with him.

As the final notes rang out and the audience erupted in applause, Spencer clapped with fervor, pride evident in his eyes. After the show, you headed backstage, your adrenaline still high, but the moment you saw Spencer waiting for you, all the excitement of the stage melted away. His eyes shone with admiration, and in that instant, nothing else mattered but you.

Without a word, he pulled you into a tight hug, holding you close as if he never wanted to let go. “You were incredible,” he whispered in your ear, his voice full of emotion.

You smiled against his shoulder, the warmth of his embrace grounding you after the high of the performance. “Thank you,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. “I’m so glad you were here.”

Spencer’s gaze was intense, filled with a mixture of awe and love. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Seeing you up there, it was… it was something else. I’m so proud of you.”

Your heart swelled at his words, the sincerity in his voice making you feel even closer to him. “It means everything to me that you’re proud,” you replied, your hand resting against his chest.

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I am. More than you know.”

—

November, 2006

Visiting Diana Reid in Las Vegas was a deeply personal step for both you and Spencer, a gesture that spoke volumes about how much you meant to him. The significance of the visit wasn't lost on you, and as you arrived at the care facility where Diana lived, you could feel the weight of the moment settling in.

Spencer’s hand held yours tightly as he led you inside, nervousness and pride evident in his eyes. You knew how important his mother was to him, and the fact that he was introducing you to her was a clear sign of the depth of his feelings. As you walked through the halls, you felt the butterflies in your stomach, but the steady pressure of Spencer’s hand in yours reassured you.

When you finally reached Diana’s room, Spencer paused, taking a deep breath before gently knocking on the door. “Mom, it’s Spencer,” he called softly, his voice filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

The door opened, and there she was—Diana Reid, with a warm smile that instantly made you feel at ease. “Spencer, my sweet boy,” she greeted, her eyes lighting up as she saw him. Then her gaze shifted to you, curiosity and kindness mingling in her expression. “And you must be Y/N. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Spencer squeezed your hand, his nerves clearly still present, but his voice was steady as he spoke. “Mom, this is Y/N. I wanted you to meet her.”

You stepped forward, offering a genuine smile. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Diana.”

Diana’s smile widened as she reached out to take your hand in hers. “The pleasure is mine, dear. Spencer speaks so highly of you.”

Diana welcomed you with warmth, her kindness evident in every word. It was clear how much Spencer loved her, reflected in the way he cared for her.

As the three of you chatted, you found it easy to connect with Diana—her sharp wit and stories filled the room with laughter. Spencer listened intently, his eyes often on his mother, revealing the deep bond they shared.

At one point, as Diana shared a funny childhood story about Spencer, you glanced at him and saw the soft, affectionate smile on his face. It made your heart swell with love for both him and the woman who raised him.

Throughout the visit, Spencer's hand never left yours, a silent sign of pride in introducing you to his mother. The connection you built with Diana added another layer to the bond you and Spencer were creating, one that grew stronger with each moment.

As the visit came to an end, Diana hugged you warmly, whispering in your ear, “Take care of him, won’t you?”

You hugged her back, your voice soft but sincere. “I will, Diana. I promise.”

When you and Spencer left the care facility, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. Meeting Diana had been a significant step, one that solidified the love and trust you and Spencer shared. And as you walked together under the bright Las Vegas sky, you knew that your relationship had grown even stronger, rooted in the love and connections you were building together.

—

December, 2006

The final piece fell into place when Spencer met your family in New York. Both of you had been a little nervous, knowing how important this moment was, but those nerves quickly dissolved as your family welcomed him with open arms. They were eager to meet the man who had captured your heart, and Spencer, with his quiet charm and genuine kindness, fit in seamlessly.

You watched with a smile as he effortlessly engaged in conversation with your parents, his gentle demeanor putting them at ease. He listened intently to your father’s stories and shared thoughtful insights that sparked lively discussions. Your mother was instantly taken with his manners and the way he looked at you with such clear affection.

It was your brother, though, who really put Spencer to the test, teasing him playfully and cracking jokes that had the room roaring with laughter. Spencer, to your delight, not only kept up but even managed to throw in a few quips of his own, earning him a slap on the back and a hearty laugh from your brother.

As you observed them all interacting, a warm feeling settled over you. Seeing Spencer so naturally integrated into your family, like he had always been a part of it, made your heart swell with happiness. You knew then, without a doubt, that he had become an irreplaceable part of your life.

Later that evening, as you walked hand in hand through the quiet streets of your old neighborhood, you turned to him with a smile. “I think they love you,” you said softly, leaning into his side.

Spencer glanced down at you, his eyes full of warmth. “I was more nervous about meeting them than I was about joining the FBI,” he admitted with a small chuckle. “But your family is wonderful. I feel really lucky.”

You stopped walking, turning to face him fully. “I’m the lucky one,” you said, your voice filled with emotion. “You mean so much to me, Spencer, and seeing you get along with my family… it just makes everything feel even more right.”

He pulled you into a gentle hug, his arms wrapping around you protectively. “I feel the same way,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. “This—us—feels right.”

—

June, 2007

It wasn’t until you and Spencer had been together for a year that the first crack in the armor began to form. A year ago, Spencer had kept his promise and looked you up online. But what he didn’t tell you was how much he hated what he found. The dating rumors, the fan crushes, the obsession from your fans—he saw it all, and it gnawed at him. The jealousy simmered beneath the surface, his insecurities festering as he watched the world fawn over you.

At first, Spencer’s comments seemed harmless enough—slight jabs and subtle jokes about the rumors and fan pages. You thought he was just teasing, playing along with the absurdity of it all. But over time, the tone changed. The jokes became sharper, more pointed, until you couldn’t ignore the underlying resentment.

The breaking point came when you and Billie Eilish, a close friend since the beginning of your career, collaborated on a song for her new album. The promo involved interviews, social media posts, and what Spencer hated the most—a chicken shop date. The chemistry between you and Billie was undeniable, something that couldn’t be faked. Watching the video, Spencer felt his stomach churn with jealousy, convinced there was something more between you two.

Unable to keep his feelings in check, Spencer picked a fight over it. The tension that had been building for months finally erupted, his words laced with bitterness. “You and Billie looked like more than just friends in that video,” he snapped, unable to hide the hurt in his voice.

You stared at him, stunned. “Spencer, we’re just friends. You know that.”

He shook his head, frustration clear in his eyes. “It didn’t look like that to me. Everyone sees the way you two are together, and I can’t stand it.”

The pain in his voice cut deep, and you realized how much he had been holding back. “Spencer, there’s nothing between us but friendship. You have to believe me.”

But the damage was done. The fight opened up the insecurities Spencer had tried so hard to suppress, and the trust that had always been the foundation of your relationship began to waver. As the argument continued, it became clear that this wasn’t just about Billie—it was about everything Spencer had been silently battling for months. The dating rumors, the fans, the world’s obsession with you—it had all taken its toll, and now it was threatening to tear you apart.

—

August, 2007

You and Spencer were lost in a heated makeout session, the tension that had been building between you two finally dissolving as you straddled his lap on your couch in New York. It had been too long since you’d had a moment like this—no schedules, no distractions, just the two of you reconnecting in the way that always felt the most natural. Spencer’s hands roamed over your body, and you could feel the urgency in his touch, the desire to be close to you after so much time apart.

Just as things were beginning to escalate, your phone started ringing. You ignored it, too wrapped up in the moment to care who might be calling. After all, the most important person in your life was right here with you. But the ringing didn’t stop. It kept going, over and over, cutting through the haze of your desire and pulling you back to reality.

Spencer pulled back, clearly annoyed by the persistent interruption. His breath was ragged, his frustration evident as he grabbed your phone from the coffee table. He glanced at the screen, and his expression quickly shifted from irritation to something darker—anger mixed with jealousy.

“Seriously?” he said, his voice dripping with venom as he flipped the phone to show you the screen.

You looked at the image and felt your stomach drop. It was a picture of you and Billie, taken during a trip when the two of you had gone swimming under a waterfall, wearing little more than bathing suits. Spencer had once liked looking at that picture, a reminder of the carefree times you’d shared. But now, that same image seemed to fuel his insecurities, the sight of you and Billie together igniting a seething jealousy within him.

“Spencer…” you began, but he cut you off, his eyes blazing with anger.

“Why is she calling you? Now, of all times?” he demanded, the hurt in his voice unmistakable.

“She’s just a friend, Spencer,” you said softly, reaching out to touch his arm, but he pulled away slightly, the distance between you suddenly feeling like a chasm.

“Is she, though?” he shot back, his tone laced with bitterness. “Because it sure doesn’t feel that way. Not when she’s always there, in your life, interrupting us even now.”

You could see the pain behind his words, the way his jealousy had been festering for far too long. “Spencer, you’re the one I’m here with. You’re the one I love,” you tried to reassure him, but it was clear that the tension between you two wasn’t going to dissolve as easily as it had built up.

The moment that had been so full of passion just minutes ago now felt heavy with unresolved emotions. The weight of Spencer’s jealousy and your own guilt for not addressing it sooner pressed down on you both, leaving you to wonder how you could mend the growing rift between you.

—

October, 2007

The article was nothing more than a piece of sensationalized gossip, a tabloid’s attempt to stir the pot with baseless claims. It wasn’t even on your radar as you prepared for your upcoming tour of the Americas, your mind focused on rehearsals, logistics, and the excitement of performing for your fans. But Spencer had seen it. And instead of brushing it off as the ridiculous fabrication it was, he believed it.

His rational mind—the one you had always admired—had been overwhelmed by months of festering insecurities and jealousy. The TMZ article, with its blurry, barely discernible photo of two women who vaguely resembled you and Billie, was the final straw. In his mind, it was proof that his worst fears were true.

Spencer’s heart raced as he stared at the article, his eyes blurring with tears. The image, though unclear, fed into his paranoia. He could barely think straight, his emotions a chaotic storm of anger, hurt, and betrayal. He grabbed his phone, his hands trembling as he dialed your number. You were in Brazil, preparing for the first leg of your tour, oblivious to the storm brewing back home.

When you answered, you were met with a voice you hardly recognized—sharp, cold, and filled with rage. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Spencer had never sworn at you before. In fact, you weren’t even sure you’d ever heard him use the word “fuck” at all. The venom in his tone made your stomach drop, a cold dread seeping into your veins.

“What happened, baby?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, but the unease was already gnawing at you.

“Don’t ‘baby’ me!” he snapped, his voice breaking with emotion. “You made out with Billie in public, and you got caught. I have photo evidence that you’re cheating on me now. I’ve known for months! Months! How could you lie to my face?”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. You could hear the pain and betrayal in his voice, but all you felt was a profound sense of disbelief and heartache. “Spencer, what are you talking about? That’s not true. I would never—”

“Stop lying!” he interrupted, his voice thick with tears. “I saw the picture! How could you do this to me? To us?”

Your heart broke at the sound of his despair, but the accusation, the deep mistrust, cut even deeper. “Spencer, I didn’t do anything. There isn’t a picture because I’m not cheating on you,” you pleaded, your voice cracking under the weight of your own emotions.

But Spencer was too far gone, his mind too clouded by jealousy and doubt. “I can’t believe anything you say anymore,” he whispered, his voice filled with resignation. “I thought we had something real, but now… I don’t even know who you are.”

The fight that followed was explosive, both of you hurling words that only deepened the wounds already festering between you. Every attempt you made to explain, to reassure him, was met with anger and disbelief. Spencer’s trust in you had been shattered, and no amount of reasoning could bring him back from the edge.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. The constant jealousy, the mistrust, the way he had let a baseless article destroy the bond you had worked so hard to build—it was too much. “I can’t do this, Spencer,” you said, your voice trembling with emotion. “I love you, but I can’t live like this. I can’t be in a relationship where I’m constantly accused and doubted. It’s tearing me apart.”

There was a long, painful silence on the other end of the line, and then, in a voice that was barely above a whisper, Spencer said, “Maybe we both deserve better than this.”

Tears streamed down your face as you realized what had just happened. “Goodbye, Spencer,” you choked out, hanging up before he could say anything else.

As you stood there, staring at the phone in your hand, the enormity of what you had just done hit you like a tidal wave. You had ended things with the man you still loved deeply, because the relationship had become a minefield of jealousy and mistrust. It was the hardest decision you’d ever made, and the pain of it felt unbearable.

You were heartbroken, knowing that despite everything, your feelings for Spencer hadn’t changed. But the relationship had become toxic, and you couldn’t continue down that path. As you tried to pull yourself together, preparing to go on stage and perform as if your world hadn’t just crumbled, you couldn’t help but wonder if either of you would ever truly heal from this.

—

Spencer sat in the silence of his apartment, feeling like a shell of the person he once was. The shock of what had just happened left him numb, his mind struggling to grasp the reality of it all. You were gone, and it was his fault.

—

In the months that followed, Spencer couldn’t escape the crushing weight of what he had done. He replayed every argument, every moment of doubt, and came to a painful realization: he was the bad guy in this story.

He watched as your tour progressed, each new headline a reminder of what he had lost. The press coverage was relentless, but what struck him most was how your relationship with Billie remained the same—close, supportive, but nothing more. There was no secret romance, no hidden agenda. Just the friendship that had always been there, and that he had been too blinded by jealousy to see for what it was.

Then, the truth about the photo came out. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t even Billie. It was a completely different couple—Phoebe Bridgers and her girlfriend. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He had destroyed everything over a lie, over a distorted perception fueled by his own insecurities.

Spencer spiraled into self-loathing, he knew he had been an asshole—an irrational, emotional, accusatory, jealous, ignorant asshole. And now, he had to live with the consequences of his actions, knowing that he had let the best thing in his life slip through his fingers.

—

June, 2008

“So, Y/N… you just finished the first leg of your tour, how does it feel?” the interviewer asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.

You couldn’t help but smile, the emotions from the tour still fresh in your mind. “Oh, it feels amazing! The energy from the crowds, the love and support—it was incredible. I miss them all so much already. Honestly, I wish I could go back and say thank you again to every single person who showed up for me and made this possible. They’re the reason I get to do what I love, and I’m so grateful for that.”

“Isn’t she great?” the interviewer exclaimed, prompting cheers from the live audience. After the applause died down, the interviewer leaned in with a mischievous grin. “I have to know, if you’re comfortable, what happened to that sexy string bean you used to have on your arm?”

Spencer, who had been half-listening to your interview as usual, suddenly found himself on high alert. His heart pounded in his chest as he waited for your response.

You shifted slightly in your seat, a small, wistful smile on your face. “Oh… um, we separated. But I still care for him deeply and hope he’s doing well.”

The interviewer nodded sympathetically before pressing on, “Are you seeing anyone new?”

Spencer held his breath, not sure if he wanted to hear your answer.

You shook your head, your smile more focused now. “No, I’m not. Just focusing on the tour right now! It’s hard work!”

The interviewer grinned. “I bet it is! Keeping busy with something you love is the best way to go.”

Spencer released a breath he’d been holding, a mixture of relief and lingering regret washing over him. He hadn’t moved on either.

—

July, 2008

(we pretend this is our song for the sake of the plot <3)

You released a few new songs before the second leg of your tour started, wanting to keep things fresh and exciting for your fans. Among the tracks was a deep cut, a raw and emotional song about your love for Spencer. It was a piece of your heart, a reflection of the pain, regret, and lingering love that still existed despite everything that had happened.

Spencer, however, had stopped listening to your music after the breakup. Every song felt like a reminder of what he had lost, especially the love songs that once brought him joy. The melodies that used to connect you two now only deepened his regret, making him avoid your music altogether.

But when Garcia heard your new song, she knew immediately that Spencer needed to hear it. Without hesitation, she sent it directly to him, attaching a message that read: You need to listen to this. Trust me.

Spencer hesitated when he saw the message. He knew it would hurt, but something made him press play. As the song played, the lyrics washed over him, each word piercing through the wall he had tried to build around his emotions. It was as if you were speaking directly to him, baring your soul in a way that was both beautiful and heartbreaking.

As the song ended, Spencer sat in silence, the weight of your words pressing down on him. He realized that despite everything, the love you had shared was still there, buried beneath the pain and mistakes. The song was a painful reminder of the depth of your connection, and it left him wondering if there was any way to mend what had been broken.

But as much as he wanted to reach out, he knew that no apology or explanation could undo the hurt he had caused. Spencer felt lost, grappling with the knowledge that he had loved you—and still did—yet had let his own insecurities destroy the best thing in his life.

—

Spencer had endured just about everything in his time at the FBI—being hit, kicked, shot, drugged, kidnapped—but never, in all those years, had anyone flicked him on the forehead. Until now. Derek Morgan’s fingers connected with a sharp flick, jolting Spencer out of his thoughts.

“We all know, Reid. Garcia sent the song to all of us,” Derek said, his voice laced with both sympathy and frustration. “I don’t know what you did, but I’m sure a flick doesn’t cover it.”

Spencer shook his head, the weight of guilt heavy on his shoulders. “It doesn’t,” he admitted, the truth settling like a stone in his stomach.

That night, Spencer decided he couldn’t ignore it any longer. Swallowing the last remnants of his pride, he picked up his phone and dialed your number. But when the automated message informed him that the line was no longer in service, his heart sank. You had changed your number. Still, the adrenaline coursing through his veins wouldn’t let him stop. He dialed the next number he knew by heart.

“Hello?” came the familiar voice on the other end.

“Dylan?” Spencer’s voice trembled slightly, betraying his nerves.

“Who is this?” Dylan’s tone was cold, guarded.

“Spencer Reid. Please, don’t hang up.”

“What do you want, asshole?”

Spencer flinched at the anger in Dylan’s voice, but he knew he deserved it. “I deserve that.”

“Damn right, you piece of shit. I watched my sister cry for months over you. And she didn’t do anything wrong—it was all you.”

“I know,” Spencer replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

“So let me repeat myself, what do you want?”

“I want to talk to her,” Spencer said, desperation creeping into his tone.

“No fucking way.”

“Please, I need to apologize.”

“She’s moved on, she doesn’t want to hear from you,” Dylan shot back, his words cutting through Spencer like a knife.

“She moved on?” Spencer’s voice wavered, the reality of those words hitting him hard.

“Yeah, most people would by now.”

Spencer felt a painful twist in his chest, but he pressed on. “I still… I still want to apologize.”

Dylan’s voice was ice-cold. “If you actually cared about her, you’d let her go.”

“Dylan—” Spencer tried to plead, but the line went dead, the dial tone echoing in his ear.

Spencer stared at the phone in his hand, the finality of it all crashing down on him. He had lost you, not just because of his mistakes but because he hadn’t been able to see what was in front of him until it was too late.

—

“He called today.”

“What?” you asked, looking up in surprise.

“He called me.”

“Who?” But even as you asked, you felt a knot forming in your stomach, dreading the answer.

“Spencer.”

You froze. That name hadn’t been spoken around you in what felt like forever. Hearing it now sent a wave of emotions crashing over you, emotions you’d worked so hard to bury.

“Why?” you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Jackass said he wanted to apologize to you,” Dylan replied, his tone laced with disdain.

“After all this time?” The disbelief in your voice was evident, and you could hardly process what you were hearing.

“Mhm,” Dylan confirmed, watching your reaction carefully.

“What did you tell him?” you asked, already fearing the answer.

“That you’d moved on, that he should too,” Dylan said, his voice firm and protective.

“Oh.” The single word hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken thoughts and lingering feelings.

Dylan’s voice softened, sensing your turmoil. “Y/N… he’s not worth it. He doesn’t deserve you.”

“I know,” you replied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thanks, Dylan. I’m going to bed. Goodnight. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Dylan said, his concern palpable even through the phone.

That night, as you lay in bed, you couldn’t help but wish your number hadn’t been leaked. You knew Spencer would have called you directly if he could have. And if you had answered? You might have at least heard him out, given him the chance to say the things he had left unsaid for so long.

But now, as you stared up at the ceiling, the what-ifs swirled in your mind, keeping you awake long into the night. You had moved on, or at least you told yourself you had. But the unresolved feelings, the remnants of a love that once meant everything, were still there, lurking just beneath the surface. And as much as you wanted to push them away, tonight they were impossible to ignore.

—

Hey Kade – think you can find a number for me? And not tell Dylan…

For sure, just give me a name and a city

God bless Kade. They didn't ask any questions, just worked their magic. Within minutes, Kade had sent you Spencer's number. You stared at it for a long moment, the screen glowing in the dim light of your room. Your thumb hovered over the call button, knowing that if you didn’t do it now, you’d lose your nerve.

With a deep breath, you tapped the number and pressed the phone to your ear. The ringing felt endless, each second adding to your nerves. But then, the line clicked, and his familiar voice came through.

“Spencer Reid.”

“Spencer Reid’s ex-girlfriend,” you said, your tone shy yet teasing, trying to mask the anxiety bubbling inside you.

There was a brief pause, then his voice, softer now, almost incredulous. “Y/N?”

“The one and only,” you replied, your heart racing as you tried to steady your voice.

There was another pause, this one filled with emotions that neither of you knew how to express just yet.

“You called Dylan,” you said, your voice a mix of curiosity and caution.

“I know, your old number didn’t work,” Spencer replied, his tone tinged with regret.

“Someone leaked it…” you explained softly, the memory of that chaotic time flashing through your mind. But you quickly refocused, your heart pounding as you asked the question that had been weighing on you since you heard he’d tried to reach out. “Why were you calling, Spencer?”

“I love you,” he blurted out, the words raw and desperate.

“What?” The sudden confession caught you off guard, your heart skipping a beat as you tried to process what he had just said.

“Your song, i love you. Did you mean it? Do you still love me?” His voice cracked with vulnerability, and you could hear the pleading in his words, the desperation of a man who had realized too late what he had lost.

“Spencer…” You hesitated, the pain and love intertwined so tightly within you that it was hard to speak.

“I’m begging you, Y/N. Do you love me?” The vulnerability in his voice was palpable, and you could almost see him, his heart in his hands, waiting for your response.

“Of course I do,” you finally admitted, the truth spilling out before you could stop it.

“Are you in New York?” Spencer asked, his voice filled with hope.

“Yes,” you replied, your heart racing as the conversation took a turn you hadn’t expected.

“Can I come see you?” His question hung in the air, the possibility of seeing him again making your pulse quicken.

“Right now?” you asked, still trying to catch up with the sudden shift in your emotions.

“Right now, I can be there by 4 pm,” he responded, the determination in his voice unmistakable.

“Okay,” you said, the word slipping out before you could second-guess yourself.

“Okay? Really?” Spencer’s voice was filled with a mix of surprise and relief.

“Yeah,” you confirmed, a small smile forming on your lips. “You remember where I live?”

“By heart,” he replied, and you could hear the warmth in his voice.

“See you soon, Spence,” you said softly, the familiar nickname bringing a wave of nostalgia and comfort.

“See you soon,” he echoed, and with that, the call ended, leaving you with a whirlwind of emotions and the realization that in just a few hours, Spencer would be standing at your door.

—

Spencer spent the entire train ride to New York mentally rehearsing what he would say to you. He went over every possible scenario, trying to find the right words to express everything he felt—the regret, the love, the longing. But as the train pulled into the station and he made his way to your apartment, his mind went blank. By the time he was standing at your door, all his carefully planned words had vanished.

His hand, seemingly moving on its own, raised to knock. The sound echoed in the quiet hallway, and within moments, the door swung open.

When you appeared in the doorway, his breath caught in his throat. You looked even more beautiful than he remembered, if that was even possible.

“Hey,” you said softly, your eyes searching his, filled with emotions.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

tag list <333 @spencerreidsreads @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @dirtytissuebox @yokaimoon @reggieswriter @loumouse @mentallyunwellsposts @time-himself @chaneladdicted @kathrynlakestone @furrybouquettrash @hearts4spensco @gilwm @khxna @charismatic-writer @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @noelliece

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insertdisc5 · 2 months

Note

Hi again, I hope this ask finds you well as well. I have another question I'd like to ask, if you'll allow me. We know Siffrin's favorite food, and we know 3 of Bonnie's, but how about Isa's, Odile's, or Mira's? Sorry if this has already been answered, but I figured I'd ask to satisfy this other curiosity I had. Also, thank you for the kind words on the prior ask. I like to be polite as possible when asking questions online - anonymously or not - even to the detriment of a word/character limit.

anon I usually don't answer "whats everyones favorite [blank]" questions because i do believe it is the fans' turn in coming up with things. All the stuff i thought was important enough to come up with is already in the game and i dont care about the rest. but once again your good manners have bewitched me. Just this once I will make up something, on the spot, just for you.

I think odile likes, like, urchin sushi. I forget the name. Or maybe it's too reductive, to think shed like something i see as a little high brow. Maybe she likes a nice good homemade omurice. She has learned the good things are the easy things.

Isabeau i see as loving ratatouille. Like maybe ratatouille made by an adult when he was a child. Maybe the parents of a friend. Literal ratatouille movie man.

Mirabelle would like. Hm. I see her loving something that would surprise everyone. Maybe foie gras. And everyone would be like "DONT YOU KNOW HOW FOIE GRAS IS MADE" and shed be like yes... 😔... I only eat it during the winter holidays... I'm so sorry for liking foie gras. Or maybe vaugarde is even closer to fantasy france than I think and she eats it happily because it's fantasy france while odile and siffrin are like FOIE GRAS IS MADE HOW? yeah. you know I like a good culture shock

#ask tag #in stars and time #everyone: that was a one time thing. just for polite anon

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wonysugar · 2 months

Text

wonder why i’m bitter | julie han

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. casual — chappell roan

synopsis : friends don’t act like this, you would know that better than anyone else.

pairing : non-idol!julie x fem!reader

genre : smut, angst, smutty angst, if you will! heavy on the angst though sorry.

tags : they were roommates,,, making out, marking, implied possessiveness, implied jealousy, anal rimming (heyyy), strap-on sex, vaginal penetration, cunnilingus, julie is bent ova, and YESS WHO SAID BACKSHOTS, arguing, topsub!femreader, bottomdom!julie, frequent mentions of sexuality, praise kink, cheating?? could you call this cheating,, one singular l-bomb,,, yikesss

warnings : none..? i guess apart from the obvious content warnings here (angst and smut) there’s some underlying internal homophobia themes?? but i don’t think it’s that bad tbh IDK BE WARNED JUST IN CASE

word count : 3,1k

a/n : haiii!! i’m finally posting this draft OUHH it went through so many changes, like for example THE TITLEE?? i was gonna make the title be a lyric to ‘goodluck, babe!’ by chappell roan since i originally based the fic on that but i ended up listening to casual instead and went woaahh,, this fits so much more what the hell?!? but yeahh i think i’m happy with how it turned out! :’) i hope you guys can say the sameedckem

ALSO! first time writing anything involving anal,, while yes i do talk about it often (ahem we all know,,) i was incredibly nervous in the process and this definitely made me step out of my comfort zone, hope it isn’t too apparent in this ;; but yeah, to stop rambling, thank you for reading!! i hope you like itt! :]]

“so…” julie’s friend makes a motion between the two of you with a raised eyebrow, wearing a curious smile. “what exactly are you two?” they ask. you thought about it for a few moments, theoretically, you two are roommates, friends at most. but, if anything, you’re more like a couple behind closed doors.

you shrug, thinking nothing of it, “i guess we’re kind of like—“

“we’re just friends.” she places, wearing a polite smile at the familiar in front of her before you could even think about the rest of your sentence. when you turn to look at her, she’s avoiding your gaze, already familiar with the type of expression you’re wearing.

it’s the face you always make when she pushes you away like this.

turning back to her friend, you nod slightly, “yeah. we’re friends.” trying your hardest not to let your dejection show through your smile.

maybe it’s all just in your imagination, perhaps you guys were never even close to being a ‘thing’ and you were the one who thought too much into it. but alas; no matter from which angle you looked at it, the way she displayed any ounce of affection towards you would always make you overthink what you two were exactly. anything she’d do in the comfort of your own apartment with you was never close to anything she’d do in public, in front of the eyes of everyone walking by. she always acts like she barely knows you whenever she is surrounded by people, whether she knows them or not.

you think about it often.

you think about her often.

you asked yourself, do you even like her like that? well, she’s pretty chill, smart, witty and funny. she’s also beautiful, and one hell of a tease, that much is obvious, you’ve had sex with her numerous times in the past, so sexual attraction is out of the question; you already knew the answer to that. the better question probably was; does she even like you like that?

“you done with them?” says julie, referring to the pile of kitchenware you guys left from last night on the counter as she hugs you from behind and rests her head on your shoulder, her arms wrapping all around your waist and watching you. you, on the other hand, were taken by surprise by the sudden display of affection, so much so that you lost your original train of thought. as much as you knew that she liked physical touch, it always did surprise you whenever you randomly felt her skin come in contact with yours throughout the day. getting quickly accustomed to the feeling of her lips kissing your shoulder, you hummed in response, washing and scrubbing the plate with the soaped-up sponge you were holding.

“almost.”

she whines in an exaggerated manner, “hurry uppp..” lightly tapping on your stomach and resting her head on your shoulder, before adding, “i miss you.”

you giggle, putting away the plate you were now done washing, quickly grabbing another dirty one, “i’m right here, though?”

“no like,” she left another kiss on your shoulder, “i miss you.”

you smirked, getting progressively more and more amused by the girl’s foreign, yet familiar behavior towards you, feeling her embrace you even tighter.

“oh yeah? well in that case, i miss you too, julie.”

you knew exactly what the girl in question meant by ‘i miss you’ and you would’ve teased her further if it weren’t for how impatient she was getting, despite how cute it was. her heavily annoyed sighs giving it away, despite those also being sprinkled with a tiny bit of humor.

“come onn, don’t play dumb with me, smartass.”

so, you pushed the oblivious act aside and obliged, setting the plate down before facing her.

your lips danced in sync with hers as you carried her to your bed. once you got there, you gently sat her down on the edge of the mattress, lips still intertwined whilst her hands glided along the curves of your body, tracing circles with the tip of her index finger on your soft skin.

you didn’t waste any time in laying her down moments later,, your mouth now eagerly roaming her neck and collarbone and leaving kisses down along her body, successfully marking it up. listening to her quiet hums, you proceeded to slide down her sweatpants, your hands tugging on the waistband.

now left in only her panties, you allowed your fingers to glide over the damp spot in between her legs, teasing the clothed entrance and taking in all of her reactions all at once.

looking at you through the light brown hair that fell perfectly on her face with hooded eyes and slightly upturned eyebrows, she whispered in a low, husky and raspy tone, “see, baby? see how wet i am for you?”

now, julie had this certain ability to turn even the most confident person alive on this earth into a nervous wreck.

you were, obviously, no exception from her spells. if anything, you, y/n, were a prime example.

you slowly nodded at her words, entranced, feeling yourself fall more and more at her mercy with each second that passed. that earned a smirk from her, putting her hand atop yours, before continuing, “you’re gonna be good and do something about it, right?”

you nodded once again, this time more eager.

“words, darling.” she whispered.

“yes,” you muttered in response, a mix of nervousness and eagerness taking over all five of your senses, “o-of course i will.”

she hummed, perfectly content with your adorable answer, before pulling you back into a hungry kiss for another long, pleasant while. that is, until she added something else between kisses, something that made you shudder.

“get the strap.”

immediately reaching for the drawer next to your bed upon hearing those words, lips still connected to hers, you obeyed and pulled the cabinet open, quickly pulling out the phallic silicone object residing in it as well as the harness, too impatient to feel even embarrassed about the sudden action.

it didn’t take long before the harness was tight around your hips, the brunette bent over in front of you at the edge of the bed with her panties pulled down to her thighs. you ravished in the sight; her perfect pink pussy sitting before you, slick and wet with desire, begging for you to finally please it properly, practically throbbing in anticipation. who were you to deny her of such pleasure?

you traced your index finger along her slit, your digit comfortably nestled in between her slippery folds as it slowly teased the entrance.

rewarded by the sweet sounds coming out of her, you wasted no more time and slowly leaned into her core, giving a long swipe of the tongue to her pussy.

“ohh shitt..” overhearing her moans, you smiled against her as you were now making out with her swollen cunt, intending to taste every drop of her slick, not wasting a single one. your lips circled around her bundle of nerves, giving it small and gentle sucks whilst one of your hands massaged her ass.

subconsciously, julie’s back arched with each movement that your tongue made inside her, her head hung low on the bed as she whimpered filthy praises, her sounds just slightly muffled from the white bedsheet she had over her mouth.

you heard them, though.

thank god you heard them.

after a long while of giving more than endless attention to her pussy, you felt your mouth move upwards by itself, driven by the pure desire to make her feel even better than she already was.

your tongue quickly made its way to her ass, roaming and dancing around her rim, which immediately earned a sharp gasp from her part. you’ve never made it a habit to eat julie’s ass, but whenever you did? it was always enough to cloud your brain with pure, raw want, and it always seemed to catch her pleasantly off-guard, since you’d always do it without any warning.

you attempted to relax her again by tracing slow circles around her hole with your muscle, before inserting it fully, which you could only assume worked, since you could hear her whines get longer and louder. “fuckk yes baby..” she shamelessly moaned, this time more audibly due to her raising her head up and looking back at you as best as she possibly could, “that’s it, such a sweet girl for me— ah..“

using one of your hands, you made sure to thoroughly stimulate her clit, rubbing circles around it and even going as far as to inserting two fingers inside her dripping cunt with your other hand in the process, all whilst the muscle in your mouth flicked way within her, drilling and wriggling as you hummed against her.

after what felt like hours of you messily rimming her, hours of her pushing herself further onto your mouth, practically fucking herself on you, you figured it was finally time to give her what’d she been wanting ever since she came up behind you in the kitchen.

pulling your fingers out and standing back up, you lined up your strap-on to her aching core, pressing the head against it before slowly inserting its entire length inside of her.

she let out a groan at the feeling of being penetrated, which progressively turned into longer and more suggestive sounds. it all sounded like music to your ears, it only made you want to please her more.

you reached for her hand, grabbing it upon contact. she squeezed yours with just as much force in return, pleasure visibly taking over her senses. it didn’t take long for you to be full on thrusting into her, either, feeling her walls clench around your fake cock as she babbled praises.

it was a small gesture, sure, but it made you feel things you weren’t quite certain on how to label.

“such a good girl for me—“ was what she let out, a loud moan escaping her agape mouth whilst you continued pounding her, faster with each second that passed. “f-fuck y/n i love you—“

you saw her lose herself under you, you watched in… admiration? infatuation? whatever it was, you thought she looked mesmerizing, especially with how her brown long hair fell all over the place, how perfect she sounded, how perfect she looked.

how perfect she was.

the words “i love you” resonated in your head.

“who’s eric?” you ask her, having thrown glances at her phone that was charging on the kitchen counter whilst washing a plate, the singular one you had left untouched due to being… distracted.

you finished washing it, then turned around, now met with a surprised julie, clothed in a pair of booty shorts and a white tank top, she was fresh out of the shower, towel drying her hair. that is, until she unexpectedly heard you speak that name, her eyes immediately darting between you and the phone, greeted by that man’s contact name and picture on the latter, an incoming phone call from his part.

“a guy?” she says back, in her usual sarcastic yet gentle and quiet tone, “thought that was obvious enough—“

jealousy and inexplicable possessiveness flooded your senses; you knew most of her friends, but, you had no idea who this ‘eric’ dude was, and that especially ate at you. why was he calling her, on a random weekday at like, 4 pm? you had checked the clock hanging on the wall to confirm the time.

“well yeah but, i don’t think i know an eric.” you stated, wary of what the girl before you was gonna say, “who is he?”

“…i just told you, some dude. i met him on campus and we just exchanged contacts after he complimented me, a while ago.” she replied, slight annoyance cracking through the facade of the joking expression she wore. she ran her dominant hand through her messy and wet hair, causing it to fall back perfectly on the side of her face and her exposed shoulders.

she added, “sure, he makes it very clear he wants to hook up with me, but that’s all it’ll ever be i think, he’s not the type of guy you’d wanna date seriously. why do you ask—“

“no reason.” you cut her off, cold and dry.

she furrowed her eyebrows, the previous annoyance being more and more apparent, this time only paired with confusion. “…what?”

“so this is completely normal for you? like, you guys hook up and call each other sometimes and you’re just casually telling me about it? what, does he take you out on dates too?”

“what are you, my girlfriend or something?” she scoffed, bitter and defensive, gently throwing the towel on the couch in close proximity to her, “and what if he does, why’s it such a big deal to you?”

why is it such a big deal to me?

and before you know it, you’re quickly matching her tone. “i simply don’t understand how you could tell me something so casually, especially right after we—“

“listen, let’s get this straight.” she says to you, “i know that just because you and i fuck sometimes you’re convinced that it’s gotta mean something, that we’re something, but we aren’t. it doesn’t fucking mean shit to either of us and you know that very well. it’s all in good fun; i don’t belong to you, y/n, and i never will.”

“it’s not about that?” you walked closer to her as you justified, trying to get your point across, “i’m not saying that you belong to me julie i’m just trying to say that—“

her stare pierces right through you as she cuts you off, and you could’ve sworn you noticed her eyes being glossy. her eyebrows furrowed in anger at you, she added on, “who i date isn’t your business. we’re just friends, and that’s all we’ll ever be, end of discussion. don’t try to turn our friendship into something it isn’t.”

friends?

“so now i’m the crazy one for not liking the fact that you’re talking to that dude?” you eventually yelled back. you didn’t even notice her grabbing her things as you talked, ready to head out, despite her hair still being wet from the recent shower. you, however, noticed how she took her still ringing phone and put on her favorite puffy jacket, her soft hand’s acrylic nails digging and clutching onto the mentioned cellular device as you rambled on and on, irritated beyond comprehension.

“we’re not fucking dating y/n, it’s all casual, i.. i’m not even into girls like that—” she asserted herself, trying her absolute hardest to sound as convincing as possible. you heard it, though, you heard that little twinge of doubt and guilt in her voice. it’s almost like she, herself, didn’t believe whatever nonsense was coming out of her mouth.

how funny was it to watch her say that all whilst having the fresh hickeys you left on her neck and collarbone not even a few hours ago?

perhaps eric will notice them, too.

perhaps with that, he’ll realize how good you treat her, how he’ll never be able to do it like you do.

how he’ll never be able to make her feel as good as you do.

“sure, you aren’t.” you scoffed at her words, before proceeding to add on, “since you swear you aren’t, how about you stop acting like you are? you know, instead of giving me shit for getting upset.”

“sorry?—“ she laughed bitterly, those words cut deep.

let me talk, you thought, let me place a damn word.

you continued, “no, seriously! you always do this julie, you always make me feel like i’m fucking insane for seeing it the way it is, for the way i see us. you’re convinced that there’s nothing between us, that we’re just friends, yet friends don’t randomly kiss me throughout the day for whatever reason, do they? they don’t fuck me and tell me that they love me in the process, do they?” as you spoke, she avoided your gaze and walked right past you, heading straight for the front door.

that’s when you recalled a certain moment, “sure, why not, let’s say, for your sake, that completely normal friends do fuck sometimes; they don’t buy you stupid lovey-dovey bullshit on valentine’s day and drive you to the middle of nowhere to stargaze, they do not take you out at night and take every opportunity to kiss you in public whenever nobody’s looking, they don’t fucking say they love you while you’re deep inside them— i mean for fuck’s sake julie do you hear yourself??”

she stopped in her tracks in front of the door, her hand resting on the doorknob. she hates it when you read her like a book, she hates it when you call her out on being the way she acts with you, she hates it when you stare at her like that— she fucking hates you. she fucking hates you for making her feel the way she does, for making her question everything about herself, she hates herself for thinking about you whenever she’s with him—

she let out a noise, something in between a sob and a laugh, before looking back at you with tear-filled eyes, she stared at you, up and down. her eyebrows twitching slightly, she then set her eyes on the ground and bit her lip in what seems to be frustration, frustration aimed both at you and herself.

“if i knew it was gonna be like this, i would’ve never done anything with you to begin with.” her voice was shaky.

you watched her figure as she turned the doorknob and slammed the door on you, with a loud clack. just like that, the apartment was empty, silent and once again, peaceful.

she’d be back, of course, whether she decides to sleep somewhere else and come back the next day or sneak back in here in the middle of the night on this same day, she always comes back after a fight. still, despite knowing that, you couldn’t help but feel like drowning in your own guilt, as this argument wasn’t like any other other. her pained expression still vivid in your memory and terrorizing you, you were afraid that you might never see her again after that.

that was pure dramatization, however.

the only thing that occupied the deafening silence of the room was the muffled sound of julie sniffling and being on the phone with who you assumed to be that boy, already planning to meet up. then, you could’ve sworn you heard the name “eric?” being pronounced as it progressively faded in the distance as she walked away, basically confirming your theory.

that’s all that filled your house and your clouded mind.

that, and the sound of your pathetic sobbing.

#smut #kpop gg #female reader #kiss of life smut #kiss of life #julie han x female reader #julie x female reader #kiof smut #julie han #kpop girl group smut #kpop smut #kpop gg smut #julie kiss of life #julie kiss of life smut #julie kiof #julie kiof smut

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23victoria · 1 month

Text

six thrity

pairings: carlos sainz x fem!reader

word count: 3.3k

warnings: cussing, rude reporter, sexual innuendos, lil angsty, fluff, semi-complicated relationship

authors note: i’m so sorry if this is bad, i’m trying to finish up this 1k celebration cause i def made it too long but that’s my fault lol, also i’m almost at 2k…you guys are insane wtf, thank you, bedsides that ignore any typos, any feedback, comments, reblogs, are appreciated and i hope you enjoy!!

wanna be apart of my taglist?! CLICK HERE!

f1 masterlist 1k celebration

The sun was high in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the bustling paddock at Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya. It was Carlos Sainz's home race, and the atmosphere was electric. Fans waved flags adorned with his number, and the air buzzed with excitement and anticipation. You watched from a distance as Carlos navigated his way through the media zone, his expression a mix of focus and polite detachment.

It was media day, and Carlos was in his element, handling the questions with the ease of a seasoned driver. You stood near the paddock's edge, trying to blend in with the sea of team members, engineers, and journalists, not wanting to draw any attention to yourself. Despite the numerous interviews he had done over the past few days, Carlos never failed to flash that charming smile that had you falling for him in the first place. Today, however, there was an edge to his demeanor, something just beneath the surface that only you, someone who knew him so intimately, could detect.

From your spot, you could hear bits and pieces of the questions being thrown at him. They started as the usual race-related queries about tire strategies, car performance, and his thoughts on the competition. Carlos answered them with the poise of a driver who had been through this routine countless times.

But then, the questions shifted. The reporter in front of him, a man you recognized from a particularly notorious tabloid, changed his tone, his voice taking on an almost casual disregard that immediately put you on edge.

"Carlos, you've had an impressive season so far," the reporter began, and you could see Carlos nodding along, a polite smile on his face. "But let's talk about something a bit more personal, shall we? There have been some rumors floating around about your relationship with Y/N. Everyone knows you come from a well-off family and have a successful career ahead of you. But don’t you think Y/N, with her background, might not really fit into this world? Some people are saying she's with you for the status, that she might be out of her depth here. How do you respond to that?"

Your heart sank, the words hitting you like a punch to the gut. The reporter’s tone was dripping with condescension as if he were speaking about something trivial, not your life, your relationship. You felt your cheeks burn with a mix of humiliation and anger, every fiber of your being wanting to rush over there and demand he take it back. But before you could even move, you saw Carlos’s posture stiffen, the polite smile on his face faltering as the question fully registered.

For a moment, the paddock seemed to fall silent, the world narrowing down to just the two of you and that reporter. Carlos’s eyes darkened, his jaw clenching in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. His smile faltered, confusion clouding his expression. His brows furrowed as the full weight of the question settled on him. It wasn’t about racing anymore; it was an attack on the woman he loved.

"Perdón, ¿qué dijiste?" Carlos's voice was low, measured, but there was a dangerous edge to it that you had never heard before. It was the kind of tone that warned of a storm brewing beneath the surface.

The reporter, clearly not expecting the reaction, stammered, "I-I was just asking if—"

Carlos didn’t let him finish. "No, no. Who do you think you are to disrespect my girlfriend like that? Do you think you can speak about her like she’s some kind of accessory or fling?"

Carlos straightened in his posture, his gaze turning steely as he locked eyes with the reporter. "Are you serious right now?" he began, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of anger. "I think you’re gravely mistaken if you believe Y/N is with me for any reason other than love."

The journalist opened his mouth to interject, but Carlos held up a hand, cutting him off. The room was utterly silent now, every eye fixed on Carlos as he continued.

"Let me tell you something about Y/N," he said, his voice firm. "She is one of the most intelligent, driven, and compassionate people I’ve ever met. She doesn’t need me or anyone else to define her worth. In fact, I’m the lucky one in this relationship, not her. I wake up every day grateful that she chose to let me be a part of her life."

Carlos’s eyes blazed with intensity as he spoke, his words carrying the weight of his conviction. "Y/N isn’t just some accessory to me or anyone else in this world. She’s built her life on her own terms, with her own strength and brilliance. She’s accomplished so much without the privileges that others might take for granted, and she’s done it all with integrity and grace."

The reporter shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but Carlos wasn’t done. His voice grew more impassioned as he continued, "Y/N doesn’t need me to validate her existence. She’s fiercely independent, and she’s made it clear that she stands on her own two feet. But she chose to be with me, and that’s something I never take for granted. Every day I am humbled by her presence in my life. She inspires me to be a better man, and I strive to be worthy of her love."

Carlos leaned forward slightly, his gaze never wavering from the reporter’s. "So, to suggest that she’s with me for status or that she doesn’t belong in this world is not only disrespectful to her but also profoundly ignorant. Y/N belongs wherever she chooses to be, and if you can’t see that, then that’s your problem, not hers."

The silence that followed was deafening. Carlos’s words hung in the air, heavy with meaning and emotion. The journalist who had asked the question looked visibly shaken, clearly taken aback by the intensity of Carlos’s response.

But Carlos wasn’t finished. Switching to Spanish, his tone softened slightly, but the edge of protectiveness remained. "No tienes ni idea de quién es ella," he said, his voice low but firm. "Ella es la mujer más increíble que he conocido. Mi madre siempre me enseñó a valorar a las personas por quienes son, no por lo que tienen, y Y/N es el mejor ejemplo de eso. Ella es amable, fuerte, y mucho más inteligente de lo que puedes imaginar. No necesitas mi vida para brillar, ya lo hace por su cuenta. Yo soy el afortunado aquí, no ella."

Carlos’s gaze swept across the room, making sure his words were fully absorbed by everyone present. He then fixed his eyes on the reporter once more. "And as for your question about her ‘fitting in,’" he added, now back in English, "Y/N doesn’t have to fit into anyone’s expectations. She’s too extraordinary for that. So let me make this clear: If anyone should be worried about ‘fitting in,’ it’s not her—it’s anyone who doesn’t see her value."

You watched, stunned, as Carlos ripped into the reporter with a ferocity that left no room for doubt. The entire paddock seemed to hold its breath, everyone frozen as they witnessed Carlos’s fierce defense of you. But he wasn’t done. Switching to rapid Spanish, he unleashed a tirade that had the reporter shrinking back in fear.

"Eres una vergüenza. No tienes ningún respeto. Claramente, tu madre no te crió bien, porque si lo hubiera hecho, sabrías cómo tratar a las personas con dignidad. Eres un pedazo de mierda por hablar así de mi novia."

("You're a disgrace. You have no respect. Clearly your mother didn't raise you right, because if she had, you'd know how to treat people with dignity. You're a piece of shit for talking about my girlfriend like that.")

You understood enough Spanish to catch the general gist of his words, but the intensity with which he delivered them left you reeling. The Carlos you knew was calm, composed, always in control. But here he was, publicly tearing apart a journalist who had dared to insult you, and doing so with a passion that made your heart race.

As Carlos’s assistant finally intervened, gently pulling him away from the confrontation, you noticed that Carlos didn’t hesitate for a second before turning and striding toward you. The fury in his eyes softened the moment they met yours, and without a word, he reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours as if anchoring himself to you.

He led you away from the paddock, away from the prying eyes and whispering voices, his grip on your hand firm yet comforting. You barely registered where he was taking you, too lost in the whirlwind of emotions that had been stirred up by the encounter. It wasn’t until you found yourself in the quiet sanctuary of Carlos’s private motorhome, the door closing behind you, that reality finally caught up.

Carlos turned to you, his expression filled with concern as he cupped your face in his hands, his thumb gently brushing over your cheek. "Cariño, are you okay? I’m so sorry you had to hear that. I should have protected you better."

You blinked up at him, still trying to process everything that had just happened. "I… I didn’t know you felt that way about me."

Carlos frowned, confusion flickering across his face. "What do you mean?"

You took a deep breath, your voice trembling as you spoke. "I know we’ve been together for a year, but with you always traveling and everything, we’ve probably only seen each other for half of that time. And with everything… sometimes I wonder if you’re going to stay with me at all. I thought eventually you’d get tired of me, maybe decide you wanted to be with someone else, someone more like you. Someone who understands your world better."

Your words hung in the air, heavy and raw, the weight of your insecurities finally laid bare. You had never wanted to confront these fears, had always pushed them aside, but now, in the wake of Carlos’s fierce defense, they came spilling out uncontrollably.

Carlos’s eyes widened in shock, his hands trembling slightly as he moved them to your shoulders, grounding himself in your presence. "No, mi amor, no. I had no idea I was making you feel that way. I didn’t realize I was making you doubt how much I love you." His voice was thick with regret, his eyes searching yours as if trying to understand how he could have missed this.

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you quickly looked away, ashamed of the vulnerability you were exposing. "It’s just… I know I can be a lot sometimes. I get jealous easily, and I know that’s not fair to you. You have so many people around you, beautiful women who are more your type, who are part of your world. And I’m just… me. Sometimes it feels like I’m just a distraction for you, someone you’ll eventually outgrow."

Carlos’s heart broke at your words, the self-doubt that had been gnawing at you for months finally coming to light. He gently tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze, his expression filled with nothing but love and adoration.

"Listen to me, cariño," he began, his voice steady but laced with emotion. "You are not just ‘you.’ You are the woman I love, the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t care where you come from, what your background is, or what anyone else thinks. You are the most important person in my life. No one else compares to you. Not models, not actresses, no one. I want you, and only you."

You stared at him, your breath hitching as you tried to comprehend the depth of his words. "But… what about all the times you were away? All the events and races where I wasn’t with you? Didn’t you ever feel like… like I was holding you back?"

Carlos shook his head, his grip on you tightening as if to physically reassure you of his feelings. "Never. Every time I’m away from you, all I think about is getting back to you. Every race, every event, I wish you were there with me. You’re not holding me back; you’re the reason I push forward. Because I want to build a future with you, a life where we’re always together. I’ve been a fool not to realize how my absence was affecting you, and for that, I’m so sorry, Y/N."

Tears finally spilled down your cheeks, but they were tears of relief, of finally hearing the words you had longed to hear for so long. "I just… I didn’t want to lose you. I was so scared that one day you’d wake up and realize I wasn’t enough."

Carlos’s eyes softened, his thumb wiping away your tears as he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. "You are more than enough, mi amor. You are everything. And I promise you, I’m going to spend every day showing you just how much you mean to me. I’ll make more time for us, for you. This summer break, I’m going to show you how much I love you, how much I’m in love with you."

A small smile tugged at your lips as you sniffled, the tension in your chest slowly unraveling. "Even if I want to do silly things?" you asked softly, your voice trembling slightly as you tried to keep the emotions in check. You felt vulnerable, laying your insecurities bare, but there was also a strange sense of relief in finally speaking them aloud.

Carlos smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. He gently stroked your hair, his touch soothing. "Yes, cariño. Even if you want to do silly things."

You bit your lip, feeling a little more confident as you continued. "Even if I want to play video games at 2 a.m. or cook some food in the middle of the night because I woke up hungry?"

Carlos chuckled softly, his voice filled with warmth and affection. "Especially that. I’ll be right there with you, heating up the stove or grabbing the controller. Whatever makes you happy, I’m in."

You felt your heart swell with his words, but there was still a small, nagging doubt that you couldn’t quite shake. "And what if I want to go to the beach at 6:30 in the morning to watch the sunrise? Or even go during the sunset to… you know…maybe have beach sex" You trailed off, your cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and excitement at the idea you were about to suggest.

Carlos’s smile grew wider, his eyes twinkling mischievously. He gently pulled you closer by the waist, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "Especially for that. Beach sex sounds like the perfect way to start or end the day."

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and full of relief. "So, you’re really okay with all my crazy ideas?"

Carlos pulled back slightly, his expression turning serious as he cupped your face in his hands once more. "Y/N, I love everything about you. Your quirks, your spontaneity, the way you think about the little things that make life more fun. I wouldn’t change a single thing about you. You make my life better in every way, and I want to be a part of all your crazy ideas. As long as we’re together, I’m happy."

His words wrapped around your heart, soothing every lingering fear and doubt that had been gnawing at you. The tears that had welled up earlier now flowed freely, but this time, they were tears of happiness, of gratitude, of love.

"I love you so much, Carlos," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Carlos leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, passionate kiss that spoke of all the love he had for you. His hands moved to your back, pulling you flush against him as if he couldn’t bear the thought of even an inch of space between you. You melted into his embrace, your arms wrapping around his neck as you kissed him back with equal fervor.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other as you shared a quiet moment of intimacy.

"I love you too, Y/N," Carlos murmured, his voice low and full of sincerity. "More than you’ll ever know."

You smiled softly, your heart feeling lighter than it had in months. "Thank you for standing up for me back there. I’ve never seen you like that before."

Carlos sighed, his expression darkening slightly as he remembered the confrontation with the reporter. "I’m sorry you had to hear that. I hate that people talk about you like that, as if you’re not the most important person in my life. I won’t let anyone disrespect you like that ever again."

You gently placed a hand on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. "It’s okay, Carlos. You don’t have to fight every battle for me. I’m stronger than I look."

Carlos chuckled, the sound deep and comforting. "I know you are, cariño. But I’ll still protect you whenever I can. That’s what a man does for the woman he loves."

You looked into his eyes, seeing the depth of his feelings reflected in them. This was the man you had fallen in love with, the man who would go to the ends of the earth to make you happy. And in that moment, all your fears and insecurities seemed to fade away, replaced by a profound sense of peace and contentment.

"Do you really mean it?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "When you said I’m your future wife?"

Carlos’s expression softened, and he gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face. "Yes, mi amor. I meant every word. I see a future with you, a life where we’re together, where we build something beautiful. I want to marry you, have a family with you, grow old with you. You’re it for me, Y/N."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the sincerity in his voice making you believe that everything he said was true. A tear slipped down your cheek, and Carlos quickly wiped it away with his thumb, his gaze never leaving yours.

"I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that," you admitted, your voice shaking slightly. "I’ve been so scared, Carlos. Scared that you’d wake up one day and realize I’m not enough for you."

Carlos shook his head, his eyes filled with love and determination. "No, cariño. You are more than enough. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, and more. I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner how my actions were making you feel. But I promise you, from now on, I’ll make sure you never have to doubt my love for you again."

You smiled through your tears, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. "Thank you, Carlos. Thank you for loving me."

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Always, mi amor. Always."

You leaned into his embrace, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest as he held you close. The doubts that had plagued you for so long seemed to dissipate, replaced by a sense of certainty that you hadn’t felt before. Carlos loved you, truly and deeply, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to fully believe it.

After a few moments of silence, Carlos pulled back slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. "So, about that beach idea…"

You laughed, feeling a sense of lightness return to the conversation. "You really want to do that?"

Carlos grinned, his expression mischievous. "With you? Absolutely. I’m down for anything you want, cariño. Especially if it means spending more time with you."

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "I love you, Carlos."

He smiled against your lips, his hands gently caressing your back. "And I love you, Y/N. More than anything in this world."

*ੈ✩‧��˚ taglist: @ham1lton @ietss @animeandf1lover @nelly187 @heartsfromtaeyong @bloodyymaryyy @nor-4 @zacian117 @mel164 @uhhvictoria @hadidsworld @zabwlky1999 @sya-skies @lillysbigwilly @avengers-assemble123456 @santanasaintmendes @km-23mr @hookhausenschips @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @ronpho @minekarina @aeongism @formula1-motogpfa @slagclarens @aleexvqa @f1updates4you @booksandflowrs @chaostudee @winkev1 @strawblueberrys @tellybearryyyy @magixpracticality @eoduuung @danieldaviddarren33 @flowerpetalk @goldenroutledge

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moonjxsung · 3 months

Text

No Guts / No Glory

Read part 1 here.

Pairing: Bang Chan x fem reader

W/c: 18.2k

Warnings: nipple/breast play, clitoral stimulation, fingering, unprotected sex, sex in a semi-public establishment (no one is around), creampie, spitting during sex, depictions of bodily harm, descriptions of blood

Synopsis: Bang Chan competes in the biggest title boxing fight of his life, terrified at the prospect of losing two things now- this match, and you.

18+. Mdni!

•

“The whole world’s watching him. I don’t blame him for wanting to walk away from all of this- I would, too.”

•

Contrary to the truths of a boxer, a trainer’s punctuality is typically admirable.

And Mr. Seo is no different, you quickly learn, as he enters the interviewing studio at a whole five minutes prior to his call time.

He’s a bit hesitant to approach you at first, the same way Chan once was, bowing politely as you gesture to the folding director’s chair across from you. And when he finally takes his seat, smoothing down a sleek black blazer he wears paired with a silk blue tie, you take notice of the way his jacket seems to constrict around the broad muscles he flaunts, the buttons of his shirt practically clinging onto the fabric that hugs his chest.

“Thanks for having me,” he says respectfully, giving you a small nod as his lips pull into a closed-mouth smile.

“Thanks for being here,” you say nervously, scanning his gaze in hopes of reading him better.

But he’s entirely unreadable, evident in the way his eyes don’t leave yours, awaiting some form of instruction as you toy with the camera and ensure it’s begun recording.

“Could you state your name, and relationship to the subject for the camera?” You begin, swallowing a lump in your throat as he folds his hands in his lap and shifts his gaze to the lens.

“Mr. Seo,” he begins, clearing his throat before continuing. “Bang Chan’s personal trainer.”

To which you then nod, satisfied with the introduction, as you begin the interview.

“How long have you been training Bang Chan?” You inquire, observing the way he furrows his brows in concentration.

“Gosh,” he begins, exhaling a sharp breath before beginning his response. “Around ten years now. It was just a hobby for him, when we initially began. I don’t think either of us figured he’d be participating in a title fight one day.”

“What’s it been like, watching him grow so quickly?”

“Exhausting,” Mr. Seo admits, slouching back in his seat as he now crosses his arms across his chest. “He loses his winning streak, I lose all my credibility.”

He chuckles as he finishes, shaking his head and gesturing with a wave of his hand. “I’m kidding. Chan’s great. He’s a perfectionist, and he’s as stubborn as they come, but he’s very talented. It’s all him.”

Your gaze remains on his in a passing moment of silence, desperate to ask him all the burning questions heavy on your mind this evening; how Chan had reacted to the agonizingly transparent rendition of his docu-series. What he’d spoken to Mr. Seo about, upon the realization that the private conversations you’d shared with him had now been broadcast to thousands of anticipatory viewers. His most vulnerable emotions on display for the whole world, your betrayal made apparent with the sweeping number of viewers the episode had garnered. And especially how he’s doing now, considering he’s failed to answer any of your calls since the episode’s broadcast.

Your heartbeat quickens in your chest as you think back to the series, and you shake your head as you’re brought back to the present moment once more, Mr. Seo sat across from you as he awaits another question.

“Could you tell us how your relationship to Bang Chan first started?”

Mr. Seo thinks it over briefly, his eyes scanning the ceiling, and then he nods once before beginning.

“He was only fourteen. Walked into our gym like he owned the place. I watched him from outside the ring, and he caught my eye because he seemed so angry, the way he threw uppercuts like a pro. I suggested he softened his hits a little- work on his form, instead of just his strength. He kept coming back, and I took him under my wing.”

Mr. Seo sighs, and then he uncrosses his arms, grasping his knees lightly before continuing.

“Maybe I should’ve seen it back then,” he finishes.

You furrow your brows, cocking your head as you observe his gaze fall to the floor.

“Seen what back then?”

He shrugs lightly, as though he’s unsure of his response, and then he delivers an answer much harsher than you’re anticipating.

“That he doesn’t want to do this.”

There’s a silence in the room as he shuffles around in his seat, and then his eyes flicker over the lens of the camera before you can utter a response.

“You mean… the fame,” you question, your eyebrows knitting together as you ponder his words.

“Boxing,” he clarifies.

The silence grows louder the second time around, and your back rests flat upon the back of the back of the chair as you allow yourself to get a little more situated in your seat.

“He doesn’t want to box anymore,” Mr. Seo repeats, pursing his lips and nodding to affirm his statement. He seems to think for a moment, as though carefully recalling Chan’s words, before elaborating.

“He’s wanted to quit for years now. He gets in these mental slumps, where I can’t get him to do anything. Nobody can. At first, I thought it was just for fear of losing that damn winning streak. I’ve since realized it’s more than that.”

He seems to fix on something in the distance beyond your seated figure, and you shift in your seat nervously, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, you nod meekly in his direction, gesturing for him to continue.

“What is it, then?”

Mr. Seo is quiet again, chewing on the inside of his lip as he deciphers an adequate response.

“Tell me,” he begins. “You ever stood in the middle of that ring?”

You think back to all those times with Chan, staring out at the rows of punching bags that line the walls, the gallery of famous boxers peering down over the vast space and the suffocating confines of the wired rope that lines the four corners.

“Yeah,” you say to him. “Few times.”

“What’d it feel like to you?”

Nerve-wracking. Entirely too large- and yet somehow still claustrophobic, all at once. Intimidating, daunting. Voyeuristic.

“It’s awful,” you voice back, swallowing a knot in your throat. “It’s so… public.”

He nods understandingly.

“Fourteen years,” he echoes back. “He’s been under that pressure. On an unbroken winning streak since he started professionally. He’s been dubbed ‘miracle athlete’, ‘athletic genius’- you name it. I’ve never seen him more miserable.”

You don’t say anything just yet, realizing this is exactly what Mrs. Bang couldn’t seem to coax out of him. The harsh reality that although it’s his passion, his lifelong dream to win this title fight, perhaps boxing just doesn’t serve the same purpose it once did for him. It’s now accompanied by the constant expectation to win, the all-consuming fear of what it means to lose, more eyes on him as his private life is publicized and monetized. And now the crushing reality that his reservations surrounding the sport have been televised, much to his utter dismay.

As you make sense of his words, your gaze snaps to the camera, at the blinking red light that indicates this conversation is being recorded, too. Your hand darts out to the shutter release, in an effort to not repeat the same mistakes, and Mr. Seo chuckles when he takes notice of your urgency.

“It’s fine,” he says simply, eyes fixed on the lens again. “He knows I’m airing it all out. It was his request, actually.”

Your motions come to a halt as he speaks of Chan, and you turn to catch his gaze once more, eyebrows arching in an apologetic expression as you find the words to say.

“How is he?” You ask, completely veering off your list of required questions, as you inquire about Bang Chan’s whereabouts.

“It’s been days,” you continue. “I didn’t know they were going to televise all of it. He trusted me, and I get if he doesn’t want anything to do with all of this-”

“He was a little taken aback,” Mr. Seo interjects. “I haven’t heard too much from him, either.”

“You haven’t?” You echo, feeling a pit form in your stomach at the fact that he’s even chosen to distance himself from his trainer in the aftermath.

“Not aside from his request to be as honest with you as possible,” he affirms. “Relay whatever he’s unable to say.”

You’re quiet for a moment, and then you gesture to the camera again.

“You mean… he wants this to be broadcasted?”

He nods, pursing his lips.

You can’t fathom why he’d want this conversation part to be televised, knowing very well that even Chan himself has trouble opening up about the subject. And now he’s urged Mr. Seo to relay these truths to the viewers- the truths that boxing has kept him in a mental slump for the better part of his whole career now. That his favorite sport is just another burden he bears, alongside a long list of fancy titles and recognitions. And that he simply doesn’t want to be a boxer anymore. Confessions that could hurt him preceding the title fight- and may only indicate one final outcome.

“He can’t quit,” you voice quietly. “He wouldn’t just leave all of this behind him… right?”

“It’s hard to say,” Mr. Seo responds. “He’s in another one of his slumps. He’s missing schedules, the fight’s just around the corner. Chan’s done this before, but it seems pretty serious this time around. The whole world’s watching him. I don’t blame him for wanting to walk away from all of this- I would, too.”

The pit in your stomach seems to grow tenfold as he speaks, and despite his assurances to record the conversation, your hand darts out to stop the recording anyway.

“He can’t quit,” you say again. “This is his life’s dream. He said it himself- losing scares the shit out of him. Doesn’t forfeiting fulfill the same thing?”

“I’m sure it does,” he counters, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips. “I’ve talked him out of it a dozen times before. Unfortunately I can’t get through to him this time around.”

Your eyes dart over the camera, and then back to Mr. Seo, as you ponder Chan’s words tirelessly.

Maybe you should’ve seen this coming long before it got to this point- his desire to walk away from all of this has been evident for as long as you’ve known him. The anger that festers deep down inside of him as he throws uppercuts in the ring, the way he gets so fixated on his sport, he shuts out the rest of the world around him. His fear of losing, but also a hatred for winning so consistently. Putting greater trust and vulnerability in a journalist rather than the people he’s known all his life.

Mr. Seo seems to take notice of your distress, cocking his head to meet your gaze which falls onto the tiled floor beneath his leather shoes.

“Hey,” he voices gently. “None of this is your fault. Somebody who’s that down on himself is bound to come to terms with it eventually. He doesn’t resent you, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”

He shuffles in his seat once more, and then he sighs a little before speaking again.

“He has a training session tomorrow, in the evening. If he makes it, you can swing by after and get a word in with him. Just don’t say I sent you.”

You nod at his words, swallowing nervously as you fiddle with the sleeves of your sweater in your lap. And then you meet his gaze once more, furrowing your brows before speaking.

“Mr. Seo,” you begin. “Why wouldn’t he resent me? I’m no better than the spectators. If anything, I’m worse. Chan probably wants me dead as we speak.”

He chuckles lightly before shaking his head.

“You’re just doing your job,” he explains. “Everybody is well aware of that.”

He thinks for a moment, before continuing.

“I haven’t seen him come to terms with his own emotions like this before- maybe ever. All he knew was anger for so long- I saw it from the moment I met him at the tender age of fourteen. He’s finally being honest with himself about what’s causing these mental slumps. It’s a level of vulnerability I’ve never witnessed in him before- it’s hardly possible when he’s constantly being told to ‘man up’ by the rest of the world. Did you know he cried in front of me the other day?”

Mr. Seo shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest.

“He did, if you can believe it. He really cried.”

And you say nothing, in response, simply thinking back to the sight of Bang Chan crying in front of you first, back at his apartment. The way tears cascaded over his hurt expression, and the way he had sniffled in between shaky confessions that losing is what scares him. Losing a boxing match, losing his passion, losing sight of his future in the careful process of finding himself. Forfeiting the biggest title fight of his life, and walking away from all of this as nothing more than a loser.

And perhaps losing you, too- the one person he still finds some semblance of sacredness in.

“Thank you,” you voice to Mr. Seo, as you reach out to shake his hand. “I’m going to talk to him. I’m going to make this right.”

The following evening lulls by painfully slow, as you wait for word from Mr. Seo. Your work doesn’t see you in for the afternoon, as you dismiss yourself early to prepare for the conversation at hand in the comfort of your apartment.

And realistically, what can you say to Bang Chan, to convince him not to walk away from this title fight?

I’m sorry nothing is sacred to you anymore. I’m sorry you’re held to such unsustainable standards. Your mom is right to be worried about you, as is Mr. Seo. But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be frustrated with all of this at the same time. Thank you for letting me bear witness to the real Bang Chan, not just the perfect boxer. You’re far more to me than just a video subject.

It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, or probably assumed already- but perhaps the future of his career depends on this conversation, and it weighs just as heavy on you, too.

As the evening draws to a close, you’re relieved to hear that Mr. Seo confirms Chan has indeed shown up to his scheduled training session like he’d promised.

“He’s a little down tonight,” he details in a short text to you. “But he’ll be here after hours, if you care to swing by.”

And there’s nothing you would miss the opportunity for, you think to yourself, as you shoot him a quick text back and begin toward the training gym.

Your mind runs rampant with endless possibilities of how the conversation might play out. Perhaps he’ll be angry with you, and send you off with a curt wave of his hand. Maybe he’ll be just as emotional as he was with Mr. Seo, assuming the same disposition he did when he first cried to you that night in his apartment. Or maybe he’ll actually listen to what you have to say, the same way you lent a kindly ear to his vulnerable display of emotions.

It’s hard to say- he’s certainly not an easy read, the way you once presumed him to be.

The gym is void of its usual commotion- in fact, if not granted entry by Mr. Seo first, you’re not sure you would've assumed it to be occupied at all. The entrance is dark, as is the hallway, and you can just barely make out his silhouette when he approaches with a gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey,” Mr. Seo remarks in a low voice. “He’s in the back.”

He looks exhausted, mentally and physically, and though he flaunts a sheen layer of sweat on his forehead from training, he wears it somberly, as though Chan’s emotions have now extended to him.

“How is he?” You inquire cautiously, and Mr. Seo shrugs in response.

“I couldn’t say. He’s hardly talking.”

Your heartbeat quickens suddenly at his words, at the thought that you’re trying to talk him out of something he’s already practically set on, even to his trainer’s standards. Realistically, there’s nothing you can say to change his mind- so does it even make sense to try? Is there a good reason to make an appearance, if at all?

“Y/n?” Mr. Seo questions, taking note of the way your gaze fixes beyond his standing figure at the darkened hallway, almost tuning out his presence.

“Yeah,” you say simply, giving him a small nod. “Thanks for letting me in. I really appreciate it.”

He just nods in response, standing aside to grant you full access. And then he’s off without another word, the low hum of his engine starting up in the parking lot.

The gym has never felt more uninviting than in the current chilling atmosphere, as you stride down the hallway and glance around nervously. The gallery wall of boxers is almost indistinguishable amidst the darkness, except for the beaming white smiles of their prideful expressions staring you down. You’re quickly overtaken by discomfort, as your eyes scan the dark gray walls, at the neat rows of boxers that mimic each other with their wide grins. The winners are hard to tell from the losers, and the losers might as well resemble just any normal spectator. Even the greats are unrecognizable to you, despite your proximity to their elegant portraits. And as hard as you squint at the array of frames above you, Baik Hyun-Man could be any of the boxers on this dreary wall.

It’s not until a loud thump echoes in the distance, that you’re brought back to reality, snapping your head in the direction of the boxing ring. It’s dark, like the rest of the gym, with the exception of the dimly-lit recess lights over the punching bag.

And stood in front of it, knees bent, fists positioned to deliver an uppercut, his jaw clenched and heavy bags under his eyes, Bang Chan.

He produces another hard punch to the bag as you take a reluctant step toward him, and then he hits two more times, the contact echoing around the room in tandem with your strides.

Thump. Step. Thump. Two more steps.

When you’re finally behind the ring, your knees grazing the raised platform, you hoist yourself over the edge, finding your balance to resume approaching him. And Chan’s punches finally come to a halt, his chin tucking over his shoulder as he attempts to catch a glimpse of you without turning around fully.

“Hi,” you say simply, halting your actions of nearing him.

Chan remains like that for a passing moment, scanning your standing figure out of his peripheral vision, before turning back toward the bag. He doesn’t deliver another punch, nor does he make any efforts to distance himself from you. He simply exhales deeply, before speaking.

“What do you want?”

“I want to talk.”

“I don’t have answers for you right now.”

“I’m not interviewing.”

It’s only then that he pivots cautiously on his heels, facing you now, a resigned expression on his face. He’s damp with sweat, glistening under the recess lighting, his thin white tank top practically glued to the convexes of his torso with perspiration.

“Then what do you want?”

“I told you,” you say to him, taking a single step toward him now. “I want to talk.”

His gaze flickers to your hands, which toy nervously with loose threads under the sleeves of your shirt. His lips part to say something, and then he scoffs lightly, before speaking once more.

“What, no camera this time around?”

Your heartbeat quickens at his words, feeling a suffocating sense of guilt as you realize he’s still upset with how the series unfolded in its last broadcast.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can say to him, dropping your hands at your sides in defeat. “I understand you’re angry. I would be, too.”

Chan is quiet for a moment, eyes narrowed as though he’s challenging you.

“I promise I asked them to omit the footage,” you assure him nervously. “It got into the wrong hands.”

And then you take a sharp breath, before continuing.

“I became obsessed,” you say to him. “With the film. With you. I just wanted to know you better. And when I found that you weren’t this superficial shell of a person like I assumed you were, I couldn’t stop myself from feeding into their asks for this voyeuristic glance at your life.”

Chan’s expression seems to soften as he registers your apology. A part of him knows you’re right- and just like Mr. Seo had conveyed, he doesn’t resent you. Because a part of him is a little relieved he got it out there, for the whole world to comprehend just how scared he is of losing. And in turn, how to go about coping with it.

“Well it doesn’t matter anymore,” Chan remarks, his head hanging a little as he toys with the bandages around his wrists. “Because I quit.”

You can feel the room spin around you as his words pierce through your chest- you’d assumed that an apology would perhaps change his mind about the brash decision. Maybe Mr. Seo was wrong about him, and he is still keen on carrying through with a lifelong dream. But as he stands here before you, his gaze locked on his wrists and his shoulders sagging with shame, you know Mr. Seo had the correct read on him, after all.

“You can’t quit,” you utter reluctantly. “You can’t give up your life’s work because you’re afraid of losing.”

“And be made to look like a complete idiot? Yeah, great idea. I’ll be the first boxer to lose a winning streak to a title fight in over 20 years. That makes me a loser in every sense of the word.”

“This fight isn’t about winning it,” you counter. “It’s about showing up. You think your role models won anything by forfeiting?”

“You don’t get it,” He retorts, a frustrated scoff leaving his lips. “You never will. You’re just here to write some story for your own benefit.”

He seems to regret the words when they escape his lips, evident by the way he meets your gaze and toys with the hem of his shirt awkwardly. And he begins to apologize, but not before you’re interrupting him again.

“Write a story?” You repeat with a scoff, taking a single step toward him and narrowing your eyes. “You think I’m just here to write a story? Is that what you think this is?”

“I could never even begin to explain it to you,” Chan says finally, lowering his head in defeat. “Just… forget it.”

The words pierce through your miraculously still-beating heart, and you can almost feel your blood boil when you see him pivot away from you to make his departure.

Your eyes force themselves away from him, far too agitated with the sight of him to even warrant a brief glance in his direction. And as you stare past him at the gray gallery wall, your gaze meets the familiar sight of the monochromatic photograph, the subject beaming down at you while you search for a final word.

“You know what?” You voice to him, sounding much calmer now as you find the confidence to speak. “You are a loser.”

“What?” He questions, halting his steps to turn his head in your direction.

“I called you a loser,” you emphasize, observing the way he turns to face you now. “Any respectable boxer would know that I’ve always been here to tell your story, not conjure up some sensationalized version of it. Forgive me for caring so much about all of this. About you.”

Chan remains quiet, interest piqued at the way you manage to reach a stalemate with your carefully chosen words. And then he plants two feet on the floor, toying with the straps of the boxing bandages around his knuckles, as he turns away from you and begins toward the back of the gym.

“I’m talking to you,” you practically shout, following in his footsteps and pulling yourself through the gap off the raised platform. You stumble as your feet plant themselves onto the floor, and then you walk briskly behind him, eyebrows furrowed crossly as frustrated tears brim your eyes.

“Sure, just walk away from all of this,” you shout at him, growing increasingly irate at the way he struts down the hallways in front of you, not even switching on the lights as you trail behind him.

“And you know what? Your mom is right,” you voice at him loudly. “You are so fucking preoccupied at being the best at what you do, and that’s exactly what brings you down. It’s like pulling teeth trying to talk to you. I’ve seen it in all you pretentious athletes before, but you’re by far the worst.”

Chan turns a corner, still silent at your remarks as he makes his way into a narrow tiled hallway and into the gym showers. The thought crosses your mind to leave, knowing that you have no business following your video subject into the men’s showers. And yet you don’t, maintaining your stance confidently as you watch him toy with the faucet handle on the wall.

“You don’t even realize the way being so cold affects the people around you. The way they so clearly worry about you- and all you can do is dismiss them, and lie to their fucking faces. Everybody’s walking on eggshells around you.”

Chan pushes the steel lever to the right, and you take a step back when the shower head begins to run with a steady stream of water, cascading over his lean figure as he remains standing. You stutter to speak as you watch Chan pull the black t-shirt he wears over his head, discarding it onto the now wet tiled floor and running two hands through his dampened hair.

And your eyes make every effort to refrain from staring too hard at the toned body he reveals to you- dripping in beads of sweat and water alike, trickling down the muscular contours of his chiseled abs and finding purchase along the elastic waistband of his shorts.

The etched convexes of his pectorals flex with subtle movements as his head hangs, brows furrowed in deep concentration as he pulls on the tightly-bound bandages around his knuckles- to no avail, the water drenching them as he continues to tug on them frustratedly.

“I hope you know that the silent treatment won’t do anything for you,” you admonish, approaching him with a single step.

You recall his strong aversion to getting his bandages wet, so instinctively your hands find his, pinching the nylon fabric between your fingers and beginning to undo the bandages around his bruised fingers as his gaze fixes onto yours.

He says nothing, the damp ends of his hair dribbling warm droplets of water onto your shirt as he towers over you, the running shower drowning out the sounds of his heavy breathing as he admires you at this proximity to him.

Your ears are flushed a deep shade of red, still riddled with clear frustration as you rant to him about all his shortcomings- and yet he can’t shake the endearing fact that you’re still helping him, despite the callous words you throw at him.

“Asshole,” he hears you utter, amongst his own deafening thoughts of you. “You can go your whole life running away from all of this whenever you feel the slightest bit threatened, and you might be fooling everybody else, but not me. I know boxing hasn’t inhibited you to be this shell of a human. Good luck with everything,” you snap, pulling the last of the bandage off from around his hands.

“But I hope you know that not even a trophy could refute the fact that you’re a fucking loser.”

Chan lets a breathy chuckle escape his lips, eyes flickering over your pursed lips when you finally crane your neck to look up at him. He’s properly drenched now, strands of hair falling into his face as his expression grows serious.

Neither of you say anything, heavy breaths escaping your parted lips and swirling into each other as he waits for you to make your departure. And yet you don’t, your chest rising and falling with labored breaths as you observe the way his eyelashes glisten under the cascading water. You watch the way the water collects along his philtrum, fusing into one reflective sphere along his top lip and dangling as he searches for the words to say- and he can’t find them, simply shutting his eyes as the water streams over his eyelids, practically forcing them shut.

He waits for the sound of your departing footsteps, or maybe for the shower to shut off if you’re even the slightest bit keen on talking things out.

And yet his body relaxes down into yours when he feels you heighten your still-standing figure, shifting your weight onto the tips of your toes so that you can brush strands of wet hair out of his face.

He shivers in your touch, exhaling a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding in this whole time. And then he works against you with ease when you finally press your lips to his, allowing the water to transfer from his open mouth to yours, the salty flavor of his sweat still present on your tongue.

Chan doesn’t say anything when you pull away once more, mentally preparing himself for you to scold him, slap him, something to confirm that you loathe him the way he believes you now do. But it’s the last thing he expects when you cup his face between your hands again, pulling him down toward you and allowing his troubled expression to meet your gaze.

You think to kiss him again, your eyes flickering briefly over his- but you don’t, simply giving him a short nod when you finish speaking.

It’s Chan who opts to kiss you again, with more intensity the second time around, his hands finding the small of your back when he pulls you in against him and allows his lips to work against yours. Your hands press to his toned stomach, grazing fingertips along his flesh as he pulls you a little closer, and you make no effort to push him away or halt your forbidden actions,

Your head is in a daze- somewhere between seething and perhaps also roused as a result of it, knowing very well that this is possibly the worst way you could handle the situation.

He’s stubborn and dejected, and though he knows that being vulnerable is the only way to come to terms with what boxing has become for him, he only seeks resolution by opting to put a lifetime of work behind him. And it’s driving you mad, to practically beg him to let you in like this- yet it feels like the only way to shut yourself up from negotiating with the shell of the man he’s become is to remain exactly like this, your lips on his, hands all over each other, letting gasped breaths escape your lips as he works his kisses along your jawline.

“I missed you,” Chan confesses with a groan as he tilts your face further up between the gentle hold of his thumb and index finger.

You say nothing back, shutting your eyes as you allow his lips to travel down the column of your neck, his hands lowering to find yours and take your wrists in his grasp. He resumes desperate little kisses down your neck, walking you back along the tiled flooring, until your body is effectively slotted between Chan and the wall below the shower head. And when he pulls back momentarily to let his thumbs caress the curves of your hips, the water cascades over you, too, engulfing you in a steady stream of water and wetting the clothes you still wear. Chan watches, mesmerized, as the white fabric of your blouse clings around your body like cellophane, outlining every convex along your flesh, your hair dripping with beads of water and hanging loosely into your face as you look up at him.

“What are you thinking about?” He inquires softly, tucking a strand of hair out of your face.

You pause for a moment, your eyes locked on the droplets of water that trickle down the tiled wall across from you. He scans your expression as he awaits an answer, using his index finger to tilt your face toward him again. The shower seems to drown out in white noise for a moment, Chan’s gaze flickering over your trembling eyes as he waits. Your mind goes back to the feeling of being in that boxing ring- far too big, and yet claustrophobic, at the same time, especially at the thought of hundreds of eyes on you. You think of your camera, and the sight of the little red light blinking to indicate it was recording him, and how it remained angled at him for hours at a time most days, capturing every little movement he produced. You think of the newspaper publications, the faces of the viewers who recognize him in public, even the worried expressions of the people closest to him as he bites back from indulging them in the truth about all of this.

And then you swallow, confidently straightening your posture, as you finally provide an answer.

“I think about you a suffocating amount.”

He cocks his head, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek, visibly satisfied with your response.

“Yeah?” He questions. “Missed me that much?”

You let out a small gasp when he lowers his lips to your chest, and then he places a single, open-mouthed kiss on the curve of your breast, his pupils flickering to hold eye contact as he does.

“Maybe,” you breathe back to him, feeling your throat still bubble with vexation. “Of course maybe I was just looking forward to watching your fight.”

He places another kiss, and then another, and then several more, traveling inward until he’s just between the valley of your breasts. And then he lifts his head up again, grazing over your parted lips, but not yet kissing you.

“I’m afraid of what will happen,” he says in almost a whisper, toying with the damp hem of your blouse.

And Chan smiles between the tender kiss when you pull him back down and indulge him anyway, allowing the indignation you feel at the hands of him to be replaced by the pulsing sensation between your legs, shutting up your thoughts with the erotic sight of him shirtless, hands all over your wet body as you melt into his touch.

“Then do it afraid,” you tell him.

You breathe between heavy kisses as his hands snake down to your blouse, rolling buttons between the pads of his fingers to undo them. He hums into the kiss when you do, letting your hands tangle in his hair as the final button is undone, your blouse hanging open loosely and exposing your chest to the cold water that continues to streamline over your desperate bodies.

You can feel Chan smirk into the kiss, entirely too satisfied with the method you’ve both chosen to adjourn this prolonged chapter of tension that seems to exist every time he’s near- of words unspoken, knowing looks and stories that barely scrape the surface of who he really is. And though you’re still peeved at his reluctance, it feels right to be all over him like this- perhaps this is the closest you’ll ever get to him, when he’s looming over you with every desire to undress you and know the curves of your body as intimately as you long to know his mind.

The thoughts agitate you the more you ruminate on them, and yet every annoyance is shut up by the sensation of his mouth working against yours, hands snaking down to the small of your back again where he sprawls his fingertips out over the goosebumps raised along your skin.

Of course Chan will never admit that perhaps this is the closest he’s ever gotten to letting somebody into the innermost complexities of his mind- but still, he’s well aware that the desire to let you in is heightened by the reality that he wants you to know him fully.

“Is this okay?” he breathes again, as his fingers graze a little lower, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

The audible groan you emit practically relays an answer to him already, yet he smiles devilishly in response to your clear frustration, your hand tracing eagerly along the waistband of his shorts. You don’t have to advance any lower to know that he’s definitely hard for you- it’s clear in the way he whimpers at the near-contact, his breathing growing ragged when you hum softly into his mouth and tug at his hair a little.

“Answer me,” Chan commands, his hands finding their way to your pants and toying similarly along your waist. Your hand rests atop his, guiding him to pull them lower as if granting him permission, and then he wastes no time discarding them entirely, tugging the soaked fabric that clings to your thighs harshly down your body and allowing them to pool around your ankles.

“Yes, it’s okay,” you gasp, moaning softly when his lips reattach to your neck.

Your lingerie is already soiled, clinging tightly against the outline of your body, and Chan’s clothes now clearly outline his fully-erect cock, strained against the thin fabric of his shorts and desperate for some release.

The shower temperature seems to have risen several degrees with the passing time, cascading over you with almost scalding water as you feel Chan’s hands lower to take yours in his. He caresses your wrists as he pulls away from your lips momentarily, and then he spins you around to press you gently against the wall, his lips finding purchase in the shell of your ear as he prods into your lower thigh from behind. He feels big against you, his whole body indicating his clear desire to take you right here, in the hardly-private environment of the gym showers, and you shiver when you feel him work kisses down the column of your neck once more, now latching your flesh between his teeth to suck a line of bruises where his lips trail.

The reality crosses your mind again, briefly, that you’re definitely not supposed to be getting physically intimate with an interview subject for a second time now. But when his hands trail down to trace behind the strap of your bra, tugging on the fabric until his nimble fingers are working over the clasp, you don’t dare utter a single word of protest at him.

Unlike the way he retracts from opening himself up to you, his movements now are purposeful. He knows what he wants in the way he so skillfully undoes the clasp of your bra, letting it fall to the floor in a puddle of water as his hands now find the mounds of your breasts. And he has clear intentions when he then slips his hands into the sides of your panties and tugs harshly, letting those pool around your ankles too, now, his hands massaging the curves of your ass as you arch instinctively and wait for him to continue.

“Will you let me return the favor now?” Chan asks boldly when his hands travel back to his own shorts. He touches himself over the fabric of his shorts, cupping a hand around his own hard girth to then stroke himself with just enough pressure to coax a heavy exhale from the back of his throat. And when you nod beneath his touch, swallowing the shower water that dribbles from between your lips to rest upon your tongue, his fingers find your face, tilting just enough to meet your gaze with his.

“I didn’t hear you,” Chan states, not yet undressing himself. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe back, hoping the impatience in your voice isn’t picked up so easily in your tone. You’d beg him to fuck you if you weren’t already begging him to let down his stubborn walls.

He smirks at your near-desperation, and then his hands resume the action of gliding upon the grooves on the elastic waistband of his shorts- only this time, he tugs them down in tandem with his boxers, allowing his exposed erection to grow against his abdomen as his clothes fall to the tile beneath him. His hand wraps itself around the base of his cock, positioning himself behind you and pumping himself a few times. And then before he makes any move to enter you, his hand slots itself between your legs, resting along your upper thigh as he presses a chaste kiss to your shoulder.

“I still think you’re a loser,” You say to Chan, for the second time now, gasping when you feel his fingers graze your clit and rub in circular motions. “If you walk away from all of this.”

“Yeah?” he says with a breathy chuckle, pressing a series of open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder. “Is this your way of saying you care about me?”

“Hardly,” you breathe back, eyebrows arching in pleasure when he quickens the pace of his movements.

“I see the way you look at me,” Chan whispers against the shell of your ear. “Either you’re really passionate about this story,” his fingers prod against your entrance, gathering the slick of your arousal onto the pads of his fingers before dipping them into your cunt and smiling when you gasp in response. “Or you’re just as drawn to me as I am to you.”

“Am I right?” He says when you arch back against him, gasping as he moves his fingers in, and then out, swirling them around your clit and back inside of you once more. “Tell me,” he continues. “Do you always get this wet for the people you interview?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you breathe back, your chest rising and falling with every labored breath as he resumes his thrusting motions in a rhythmic pattern. “You’re the one who drags me everywhere with you like I’m your fucking assistant.”

“You could’ve declined,” Chan says plainly, his tongue finding your neck and tracing along your throat in one long stripe, before latching his teeth around the flesh as he had previously. “I think you just like me.”

You begin to respond, quickly unable to as he thrusts his fingers at a particularly fast pace now, your words coming out as a series of high-pitched moans, instead. You silently pray he can’t tell you’re enjoying this entirely too much.

He pulls his fingers out again, and you spread your thighs a little to grant him access to your clit once more, yet he doesn’t indulge you, simply letting his hand find your waist again and caressing your damp skin.

“Why’d you stop?” You say a little too abruptly, earning a chuckle from him as his hand wraps around the base of his cock.

“Someone’s eager,” Chan remarks, and you mentally scold yourself for audibly sounding it.

“Just hurry up, will you?”

His hand caresses the vein that runs along his shaft, thumb toying with his pink tip as he hums in response to your anticipation. And then he pauses again, before tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

You watch as Chan’s neck cranes up, too, his adam’s apple bobbing outwardly as he faces up at the shower head that continues to shoot a steady stream of water over your tangled bodies. He shuts his eyes momentarily, allowing the water to cascade in two streams down his cheeks now as it makes contact over his pronounced nose bridge. And then you watch his plump lips part above you, the flow of water merging into one steady stream once more as he lets it fill his mouth, his chin almost trembling as he struggles to take it all in one mouthful, quickly spilling over and dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t swallow the mouthful, he doesn’t dispose of it as he turns to meet your gaze again. Instead, he angles your face toward him with the gentle maneuver of his thumb on your chin, his lips pulling as much as they can into a cocky grin as he cups your face and allows your mouth to remain agape for him.

No words are exchanged as he partakes in the lewd action of allowing the water to dribble down into your mouth, strings of saliva accompanying the salty taste of his sweat and the metallic taste of gym shower water. He allows his mouth to fully empty into yours, guiding strings of saliva back between your parted lips when your respective mouthful begins to spill over, too. And then as the caress of his thumb along your chin instructs you non-verbally to swallow it, to let the concoction dribble down to the back of your throat and glide with ease past your trembling lips, he’s guiding himself inside of you at the same time, his hands spreading your thighs as he guides his cock into your entrance and holds it there for a still moment.

You want to verbally remark how big he feels inside of you, but you can’t speak just yet as you swallow the remainder of his saliva, gasping for a breath when he pulls back to then thrust into you with a little more force. And then his hand reaches around to your clit once more, the pads of his fingers working you in circles again as he begins to move with rhythmic motions.

“Are you okay?” Chan asks in a gentle voice, as he gathers your hair with his vacant hand, draping it over your shoulder to press a chaste kiss against your neck.

You nod quickly in response, far too overcome by the sheer pleasure of his flesh working in and out of your glistening walls to give him a proper answer, and he takes the heavy panting that escapes your lips as answer enough.

“God you feel so fucking good,” Chan remarks, as he gives your hair a little tug. “I’ve been thinking about this. About you.”

He lets his eyes shut in a blissful state of euphoria as he fucks you, satisfied groans escaping his lips as his fingers grasp at your flesh eagerly, careful not to loosen his hold on you as though he might lose you.

And then before he can ponder the implications of his breathless speech, he’s breaking the silence again, regret overtaking his dizzied state the moment he speaks again.

“What are you thinking about?”

The words are near insensitive as it now stands, and Chan knows very well that he’s going to be met with some version of dispute from your breathless figure. But you surprise him for the second time this evening, when you don’t argue against his callous actions, instead letting your lips part in pleasure as you breathe out a response.

“You,” the simple answer conveys. And Chan can feel his cock twitch inside of you at the admission, another groan escaping his parted lips as he feels himself grow twice as roused at the fact that he consumes your thoughts just as much as you do his.

Between the rhythmic sounds of his groans that precede your gasps for air, muffled by the steady stream of the shower that nearly drowns out your voices the same way the pleasure nearly drowns out your thoughts, you feel his hand reach around to grasp your fingers between his. He gives it a gentle squeeze as he angles your parted legs toward the shower stream, letting the water cascade in a pulsing vibration directly on your clit. And the dizzying sensation of your joint frustration and pleasure only reminds you that the thoughts are not limited to just him.

Thinking about Bang Chan extends far beyond just the charming public figure he now is- they exist in a capacity much larger than a longing to know him for the purposes of any stupid docuseries. The thoughts of him transcend the superficial established connection of a subject behind a camera lens- instead, you long to know the very intricacies of his consciousness, to pick his mind and comprehend his real fears, his hangups, his shortcomings and his plan for a life beyond this one. It’s a longing to know him beyond just his tales of guts and glory, and this life he’s so scrupulously centered around his boxing career.

He’s purposeful- in his strategy and his movements, and you’re quickly brought back to the gym locker showers when you feel him spread your lips a little wider toward the shower stream, earning a fervent moan from you as you feel his cock twitch again inside of you.

“Fuck,” Chan exhales, through gritted teeth, as he staves off his orgasm momentarily.

He observes the way your eyebrows arch in sheer pleasure, all fucked-out as you take him so obediently and allow the shower to pleasure you where he can’t. And then he angles your face toward him as he indulges you in one final sloppy kiss against your parted lips, the lewd remnants of sweat and spit and water still exchanging from his body onto yours.

“I’m sorry,” is all Chan can breathe against your lips, as he assists you in reaching your finish, giving your hand an affirming squeeze as your legs tremble in his touch, your walls contracting around his cock, as the shower water that cascades onto the floor is now mixed with your juices and and the echoing sounds of your high-pitched moans. And Chan nibbles on the lobe of your ear, confessing a string of apologies as he reaches his finish now, too, filling your still-aching body with his load and not loosening his grasp around your fingers.

Before pulling out, his trembling hand finds the steel handle of the shower, which he pushes into an ‘off’ position once more, before relaxing his figure against yours, hands finding purchase on your hips as you both catch your breath.

The tiled room grows much quieter now as heavy breaths escape both of your parted lips, chests rising and falling against each other as his chin rests on your shoulder.

The stream of the shower has now reduced to the repetitive tap of dripping water along the floor, echoing in the near-silence of the steamy room as you remain pressed against each other, bodies languid and far too drained of your frustrations to speak.

And yet amidst the eerie silence of the room, Chan speaks in a voice above a whisper, his fingertips intertwining with each other as he tightens his grasp around your frame.

“I’ll do it,” he says breathlessly, taking your hand in his and bringing it up to his lips for a tender kiss to your knuckles.

“Do what?” You challenge, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair out from his eyes.

He chuckles softly, cocking his head as you await a response.

“Say it,” you reiterate, and he rolls his eyes playfully before answering.

“I’ll do the fight,” Chan says finally, his shoulders seeming to relax when he comes down to rest his forehead against yours. “I’ll show up, and I’ll do this match.”

His head hangs as his figure towers over yours, fingers giving yours a little squeeze before he finishes speaking.

“And we can finish telling this story together.”

And the gentle gargle of the shower drain succeeds his words, disposing a mix of sweat and water and arousal alike.

GOLDEN GLOVES CHAMPIONSHIP TITLE FIGHT- BANG CHAN VS. KANG-DAE

It’s not unusual for boxers to flaunt a long list of rituals on fight days. Some have particular food specifications the night before, others ensure a strict routine of stretches. You distinctly recall a few playlists shared by previous athletes you’ve interviewed, and even lucky articles of clothing for others.

For Bang Chan, sherbet popsicles are a considerable factor in his pre-boxing rituals. And yet for the first time in his career, they’re unavailable to him.

“You tried the convenience stores on the south side?” He asks again, pacing back and forth as Mr. Seo slings his belongings into a gray storage locker.

“All sold out,” Mr. Seo explains. “There’s a few similar ones in the freezer at the back. Not sure if you wanna give those a try.”

Bang Chan thinks it over momentarily, electing not to respond as frustratedly as he wants to. And then he shoves his hands in the pockets of his gym shorts, hanging his head in defeat.

All around him, the hallways of the stadium are teeming with movement- from security in black jumpsuits traversing the rooms, sports commentators readying their equipment, makeup artists organizing their respective supplies. Even Mr. Seo seems to be heads-down in his own tasks, hardly uttering words of consolidation as he makes his way over to another staff member.

And all Chan can do is simply wait, in the green room, for further direction, as he tries his best not to get in the way. Mr. Seo had once described this part of the process as a “hurry up and wait” sort of phenomenon- something Chan never fully understood until he was participating in some of his biggest fights to date. The makeup artists will usher him to a swivel chair, where they’ll begin with a base of primer on his face, and then they’re gone again, disappearing to retrieve more supplies from beyond the green room. Staff members will begin to explain the timeline of this evening’s events, and then they’re quickly caught up in an entirely different conversation, not even completing their sentences before they’re a whole room away from him.

Even Mr. Seo will begin a pep talk, reminding Chan to “loosen up”, and that “whatever happens, happens”- and then he’s absent once again, too, quickly reminded of something he’s forgotten back at his designated locker.

So all Chan can do is wait, his eyes scanning rows of photographs that line the unfamiliar walls of this foreign stadium.

He’s entirely riddled with fear, the way he always is before a fight. Yet his thoughts are also plagued with you, and you, and more of you, as he recalls the way all of his previous evenings alongside you had unfolded.

Perhaps all of the desperate kisses you’d exchanged, and the now several times you allowed him to return the favor, served as pre-ritual enough for Chan, who practically bites back a smile when he remembers the way your delicate fingers weaved between his, reassuring him for one final time that he’s not a loser for showing up.

All of your sagely words circle his mind as though he’s indulging himself once more in the sacred moment of a boy and his favorite sherbet popsicle- apologetic confessions that he’d become an object of fascination for you. A myriad of shaky words detailing a sheer gratitude for allowing you to know him this intimately, the way he’s been withholding from the people closest to him. And although his truths had been publicly broadcast, a newfound appreciation for this level of vulnerability.

And he’s quickly brought back to reality when Mr. Seo makes his entrance again, folded blue satin grasped tightly in his hold.

“Robe’s here,” Mr. Seo explains, as he nears Chan’s seated figure. Chan cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the familiar article of clothing- blue, upon his mother's particular liking to his first pair of sparring mitts.

The whole room seems to halt their actions and stare when Chan finally rises from his seat, pulling his ribbed white tank top off over his torso with the swift motion of a hand. And beneath the bright lights of the green room, a series of camera flashes illuminates the space around him, as they capture the first moments he’s finally undressed.

“Arms out,” Mr. Seo commands.

He assists in pulling the robe over Chan’s broad shoulders, smoothing down the silken fabric as Chan adjusts the collar.

Another staff member unbeknownst to Chan gestures for his hands, where she begins to wrap nylon around his knuckles. One more readies his boxing gloves, pulling open the velcro from around the closure strap.

Makeup artists begin to circle him again, brushing powder along his nose and instructing him to pout his lips for chapstick.

As they prepare him for the biggest title fight of his career, Chan can still only think of you.

He knows you’re prohibited from interacting prior to the fight- rules which you mutually opted to establish, knowing it would be entirely too difficult to conceal your emotions in the presence of each other. But the fact stands, that he misses you, and that in the absence of his typical pre-fight ritual, you’re the only other means of instilling a sense of calmness within him.

“Kang-Dae’s already here,” Mr. Seo then says, as he fastens the strings of Chan’s robe.

“He’s here?” Chan echoes, eyes widening as the realization sets in.

He pictures the green room opposite to his in the stadium; it’s probably just as busy, with staff members working to prepare Kang-Dae for what will also be the biggest fight of his career. Chan realizes for the first time that he’ll be face to face with the same figure he’s spoken so highly of, the same person he’s made strategic efforts not to run into, and the same person he’ll now be facing in the ring- not just a practice match against Mr. Seo, or even a punching bag.

“He arrived not long ago,” Mr. Seo explains. “We have 15 minutes until entrance.”

Chan rotates his hands, at the staff’s request, as they fasten the black sparring mitts around his fists. And then his gaze falls to the mirror across from him as another stripe of powder is brushed along his nose.

His eyes scan his own standing figure for a moment- he looks taller than usual, and stronger, his shoulders pulling back as the blue satin robe hangs loosely around his toned body. His hair is smoothed back again with a gel comb, his shoes knotted three times at the laces.

And then his gaze falls to the standing figure behind him, as you make entrance into the green room at last, a colleague by your side and a team of cameras filing in after you.

“… you can begin setting up in ten,” a staff member directs them, gesturing to the hallway beyond them.

You do your best to register the instructions, nodding your head as they speak right past you, yet completely unable to do so, as Chan’s lips pull into a closed-lip smile.

He can say nothing at the sight of you, simply admiring the elegant black double-breasted dress you sport, your hair pulled back to flaunt a sophisticated makeup look. And your eyes remain locked with his for a passing moment, as you examine his appearance in all its glory- the way the blue satin robe falls loosely around his chiseled abs, the glow of his makeup under the bright lightning, even the new sight of his gelled hair, pushed out of his face to reveal his handsome features to you.

He hardly looks familiar to you this way- much less like the Chan you know at the proximity of his lips on yours, and more like renowned boxer Bang Chan, the way the rest of the world refers to him.

Mr. Seo seems to take notice of Chan’s eyes on yours, his gaze flickering over Chan’s intense stare in the mirror and then around to you, who scrambles to face your camera crew once more. He smooths down the collar of Chan’s robe one last time, giving him a pat on the shoulders, and then he calls out to the nearby staff in a moment of understanding.

“Let’s give Bang Chan a moment,” he says, gesturing to the hallway with a cock of his head. “We’ll make entrance in ten.”

The makeup crew packs the last of their belongings, shuffling out with briefcases of pallets and brushes. Security assume their positions just past the door in the hallway, shutting the heavy steel door behind them, and Mr. Seo leads the rest of the crew out, shooting Chan a small wink as he observes you maintain a safe distance from Chan.

When the green room is finally cleared, the steel door shutting fully with an echoing thud, Chan pivots to face you, leaning back on the vanity, his hands shoved into the pockets of his robe.

“Hi,” he muses curiously.

You take several steps toward him, arms crossed at the elbows, and then you halt in front of him, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

“You look cool,” you tell him, the corners of your lips pulling up into a smile. “Like a winner.”

He chuckles softly, standing up straight now, his broad figure towering over you as he maintains an amused smile. He begins to close the gap between your smiling figures, but you reach a hand out to stop him, sprawling your fingers out across his stomach and pushing him away lightly.

“You can’t kiss me,” you say to him. “It’s bad luck.”

“Oh really?” Chan questions. “Says who?”

“Says me,” you voice back, chuckling softly in response. “You just got your makeup done. And I don’t want to run the risk of being seen by somebody.”

“There’s nobody around,” he emphasizes, taking your hands in his. “Besides, the makeup’s going to get ruined enough as it is.”

“Still,” you say to him, reaching up to run a finger along his gelled hair. He searches for the words to refute your argument again, but instead he’s silent, cocking his head to observe your expression.

“If I can’t kiss you,” he begins. “I think it’s only fair that you indulge me in a story. For good luck.”

You smile up at him, thinking it over a second. He rubs his fingers over yours tenderly as he awaits a response, and then his expression grows serious again when you begin to produce one.

“In 1988, Baik Hyun-Man was the first heavyweight boxer of his kind to make it to the Olympics. He trained for an incredible amount of time, and he swept in his division that same year.”

Chan nods as you speak, recounting the tale in his own mind.

“Two years later, he retired. And the world didn’t know what to make of him. In his final speech to the world, he detailed his reasoning- that maybe through tales of his, of guts and glory,”

“… we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried,” Chan finishes.

He says nothing as your lips pull into a smile, mirroring his.

And then he gives you an understanding nod, as a knock is heard on the steel door, indicating time for his entrance.

The arena is almost deafening with heavy anticipation when you finally make your entrance, assuming a reserved spot at the front, amidst the rows of occupied seats. Spectators sport face paint and signs, balancing buckets of popcorn in their elbows and chugging gargantuan cups of soft drinks and alcohol. The chatter of sports commentators can already be heard overhead as they detail the sight to viewers at home. And as you glance around the arena, you can’t help but worry for Chan, who you know already feels suffocated enough in the confines of the practice gym.

The same emotions you harbor when staring out at the gym are elevated- perhaps tenfold, as you lose sight of the rows in the shadows beyond the bright white recess lighting. Your cameras are set up alongside you by the crew, who assemble the tripods and angle the lens toward the ring.

And you watch nervously, waiting for sight of Chan’s entrance. Your eyes scan the sea of people, who talk excitedly amongst themselves, and then back to the boxing ring, which seems to glow under the blinding white lights- and then your attention is drawn back to the seat beside you, as a figure shuffles past toward you.

“Mrs. Bang!” You exclaim, bowing graciously as she mirrors your action.

“So good to see you again!” she states, a warm smile on her face. “We’re sitting just that way.”

She points to the right of your spot, and beyond rows of fans, you can clearly locate what appears to be the rest of Chan’s family, who greet you with smiles and excited waves.

“Wow, there’s so many of you,” you say back to her, chuckling lightly as you wave them down.

“We’ve never missed a match,” she explains. “He always knows where to find us.”

The statement is comforting to you, as you recall how nervous Chan is to have hundreds of eyes on him at any given moment- at least among a sea of spectators, he can always still count on a few familiar faces rooting for him.

“Listen,” she begins to say. “I wanted to thank you for this whole film. We had a long conversation about it, following the second part of his series. I always knew it was taxing for him- I guess I just hadn’t realized how scared he was of all this.”

She lowers her voice to just above a whisper, glancing nervously at her side, before continuing to speak.

“It was eye-opening for all of us, to view it from a different perspective. We all want him to win- just not at the cost of his well being.”

You’re quick to shake your head, shooting her an understanding smile.

“I wanted to apologize to you- I didn’t know they were going to air a lot of it,” you tell her. “I didn’t mean for his secrets to be so… televised.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mrs. Bang reassures you. “It’s the kind of honesty nobody’s been able to coax out of him before. Sure, it reached a lot of people. But it was bound to, considering how long he’s kept all of this from us. Sometimes when we’re most vulnerable, it’s the only time we’re able to truly understand what we want.”

You ponder her words momentarily, not yet separating from her gaze, as her lips pull into a small smile. You see a lot of Chan in her- restless when she’s distressed, and yet a robust willingness to decipher a meaning from all of the pain. She’s enchanting the same way Chan is- it’s no wonder he holds his family so close to his heart.

“Thank you,” is all you can utter in reply, as she reaches out a hand to give your forearm a squeeze.

“Whatever happens tonight,” she voices. “I’m glad we got to tell this story. I think you’ve done a fine job at knowing him.”

You return her words with a smile of your own, your eyes darting back to the ring, where staff members circle about and make their final preparations.

“It’s not over yet,” you remind her. “We’re still telling it.”

And she shoots you a knowing wink, as she bows graciously and begins back toward her designated seating.

When the spotlight illuminates over the west wing of the arena, the rest of the venue goes dark, crescendoed chatter making itself known all around you as fans eagerly await the entrance of both athletes.

“… tonight’s biggest match of the year here at the Golden Gloves Championship,” you can hear a commentator announce from the platform far above you.

“Bang Chan vs. Kang-Dae, a battle of undefeated superstars, scheduled for 12 rounds of boxing. Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you our participants in tonight’s main show.”

All eyes seem to shift nervously over the west wing, squinting amidst the contrast lighting to make out whose entrance will precede the next. And when the commentator begins to speak again, your heart practically drops in your chest, when you observe the first.

“Introducing to you first, on my right, fighting out of the red corner, wearing red mitts,” he begins. “A campaign record of 23 wins, 19 coming by way of knockout. Please welcome the hard-hitting, former lightweight champ of the second division, boxer Kang-Dae.”

Your eyes fall to his looming figure on the left, observing the way he jogs in place, a bright red robe draped over his muscular build as he wears a cocky smile on his face.

He sports a shaved head, cracking his neck with a jerky movement of his neck, his buff build flexing beneath the overhead lights. If you’d previously assumed Chan to assume the appearance of an arrogant athlete, Kang-Dae’s definitely broken that record now, made even more clear in the way he raises his fists to the audience and circles the ring as they cheer for him.

“And on my left,” the commentator begins, your head snapping to the other side of the ring.

“Fighting out of the blue corner, wearing blue mitts, completely undefeated in his division on a rampant winning-streak. A total of 40 wins, 26 coming by way of knockout, we welcome the electrifying king of boxing and rising star to fame, champion boxer Bang Chan.”

The lights are illuminated over Chan’s standing figure now, and your heart skips several beats when you witness his powerful stance in all its glory, for the first time in a professional setting.

Chan adjusts the velcro around his wrists, pulling it taut between his teeth, craning his neck out at the audience, before raising a single fist and shooting the spectators a nervous, closed-lip smile.

The crowd is much louder this time around, the entire arena erupting in a sea of applause and cheers, as he rolls his shoulders back now, his gaze finally falling onto Kang-Dae’s.

You reckon you could cut the tension with a knife when they make visual contact, their eyes darting over each other’s statures and mentally relaying words of self-righteousness at one another. Although Bang Chan is visibly nervous, he looks angry, the same way he does when he’s throwing punches in the practice ring. As they approach each other at the center, your gaze is drawn back to the referee, who holds a hand out in front of each of their figures, beginning to voice a list of rules.

“Touch ‘em up,” he tells them, as you watch them raise their mitts to make contact just once, before retreating to their respective corners.

The noise is drowned out momentarily amidst your own thoughts, eyes scanning nervously over Chan’s figure, as you watch Mr. Seo fit a mouth guard over his teeth. He talks loudly over the deafening cheers as he relays some form of instruction to him, giving his shoulders an affirming tap and gesturing to Kang-Dae.

Your own gaze falls to your camera crew, who meticulously adjust the lenses to not miss a second of Chan’s movements, and you chew the inside of your lip nervously as you wait for him to assume his position. On the overhead screen, you crane your neck up to catch a glimpse of their names in flashy text, illustrating ROUND 1 alongside a headshot you’ve never seen of Bang Chan.

And then before your gaze falls over his figure once more, the double chime of a boxing bell fills the room loudly, indicating start time for the two.

It happens faster than you were prepared for, when Kang-Dae lunges forward to deliver a harsh hook, just barely missing Bang Chan as they begin to circle around each other.

Both sides of the arena are equally deafening, fans practically rising from their seats to cheer for either member. Chan’s movements to dodge Kang-Dae are swift, yet sharp, as his blue mitts conceal his serious expression, his tongue rolling once over the harsh blue color of his mouth guard.

“Approaching the midway point of a cautious start to the first round,” a commentator states. “There’s a jab, from Bang Chan in the blue. Who just barely misses Kang-Dae’s dodge- folks, do you see that footwork?”

The screen overhead now displays a timer- 45 seconds left of round one, and you turn to your own cameras when you take note, observing the way Lin fidgets with the pan arm.

“He’s being careful,” Lin comments. “We should start seeing more action by round 3.”

Your lips part to say something, but you simply turn back to the ring again, eyes darting briefly over the screen.

20 seconds, 19, 18…

“It’s neutral,” another commentator states. No one’s attempting to put the other out just yet.”

14, 13, 12…

“Listen for that bell, gentleman,” the referee announces.

“A landing jab, from Bang Chan on the right! And time, right there.”

As both boxers return to their places, you can see Mr. Seo approach Chan, who assumes a spot on a little stool in his corner, exhaling sharply before he’s quickly surrounded.

“Perfect start,” Mr. Seo tells him, pulling the mouth guard out from between his teeth. “He’s gonna start making some hard moves at you. We’re looking for counters, right? Just be relaxed, and be light on your feet.”

Bang Chan nods, as somebody to the right of him brings forward a sports water bottle and gestures for him to take a swig. When he pulls away once more, they reach out to wipe a drop from the corner of his mouth. Another figure behind him runs what appears to be a bag of ice over the back of his neck, giving him a quick massage, before retracting.

Chan doesn’t say anything for the duration- he simply nods, seemingly regulating his breathing and focusing on Mr. Seo’s advice.

And when the break is called to an end, both parties meet at the middle of the ring again, as the referee ushers for them to start round 2.

The boxing bell is just as jarring the second time around, a double chime echoing loudly throughout the arena. And this time, Chan doesn’t waste a second lunging at Kang-Dae first, his fist making robust contact with his opponent’s stocky build, a loud thump revertebrating from the hit.

Kang-Dae seems to duck as he does, his fists coiling around Chan’s waist, as he holds him tightly in his grip and shoves him forward, earning the attention of the referee, who holds out two hands to stop them both.

“Stop, stop,” he calls out. “Not another until I say go,” he explains. And the two shoot furious looks at each other, before the referee announces “go!” once more. Kang-Dae dodges a series of quick punches from Chan, whose footwork remains light and skillful, as he circles the perimeter of the ring.

“Bang Chan utilizing lateral movement along the ropes,” a commentator says loudly. “Now, Kang-Dae is still excellent coming off the ring.”

Kang-Dae quickly coils his mitts around Bang Chan a second time, swiftly pushing him forward once more, and the referee is louder when he admonishes a second time.

“Back,” he tells Kang-Dae aggressively. “Can’t tie him in a hold.”

At a minute-thirty into the match, Chan delivers another punch, this time landing hard.

And with bated breath, you watch as Kang-Dae takes a harsh tumble to Chan’s left hook, quickly pulling himself off the floor again and retreating to his corner.

The audience erupts in roaring cheers as Chan adjusts the waistband of his shorts, rolling his tongue again over his mouth guard. The referee says something indistinguishable to Kang-Dae, who nods furiously in response, and then they meet in the middle of the ring again.

“After a slow start to round 1, Bang Chan drops Kang-Dae in round 2, marking only the second time to occur in his career,” the commentator announces. “We’re at 15 seconds left now.”

Both continue dodging a series of punches and circling each other, with neither delivering another jab as ceremonious as Chan’s for the remainder of round two. And then the referee calls time again, as the boxing bell chimes five times now, and they retreat to their corners once more.

While their respective teams make haste to tend to both athletes, the large screens overhead project highlights from round two in slow motion. You watch proudly as the recap shows Chan deliver a particularly harsh jab to Kang-Dae’s chest, lunging him backward until his footing is lost, his muscular thighs making contact with the floor of the ring. While he’s quick to get back up again, his expression is irate, and Chan does a perfect job of maintaining his stance when he attempts to hit back ten times harder.

“Focus,” Kang-Dae’s trainer tells him, as another member dabs at the beads of sweat that line his brow. “Don’t think about his campaigns. This is about you. Remember- he’s scared. Take advantage of it. Get up. Man up.”

Kang-Dae hardly produces an answer, simply grunting, as the mouth guard is pulled from between his teeth.

“He’s fast,” he says between labored breaths.

“Then be faster.”

On the opposing side of the ring, Mr. Seo pats Chan’s knee, pulling out his mouth guard and allowing him a swig of water.

“Atta boy,” he says to him. “Don’t overcommit. Perfect energy.”

Chan simply nods, rolling his shoulders back, as he’s massaged in the remaining seconds. And then they’re at the center of the ring once more, as the referee calls for round three.

Five rounds in, Bang Chan continues to take lead of the match, delivering a sharp uppercut to Kang-Dae’s jaw, which precedes another series of smaller punches.

The crowds seem to be much louder for Chan, his punches eliciting excited reactions from all over the arena as he throws hit after hit, and Kang-Dae’s expression appears defeated each time he retreats to his corner.

“Keep it coming,” Mr. Seo tells him. “Watch for those counters. Your hooks are perfect.”

He appears more breathless each time he hoists his body over the little stool, simply nodding in response to the praise around him. And right before the sixth match, he cranes his neck, as though he’s looking for somebody in the crowd of people. His eyes tremble as he scans over the east wing, and then the west wing, his staff members practically pivoting his body back in place to hydrate and clean him of sweat.

“Focus,” Mr. Seo says, forcing his gaze back upon him. Chan nods sheepishly- but Mr. Seo is well aware that Chan seems to be seeking you out amidst the crowd, a sort of desperation present within him like he’s never observed before.

He’s competent in this evening’s fight, but he also appears distracted, like there might be something more important to be found in your presence rather than the biggest fight of his life.

And ten rounds in, Mr. Seo’s theory proves correct when Chan’s performance begins to falter.

He fumbles a little in response to Kang-Dae’s swift attempts at a landing jab- and consequently, just enough to permit contact, failing to dodge when he produces a sharp uppercut to Chan’s left side.

It feels as though it’s another slow-motion replay when you watch it unfold, observing the way Chan’s whole body jerks to the left, his eyes squeezing shut and a stream of saliva escaping from between his parted lips. He successfully dodges another one at 10 seconds to the round’s conclusion, but he’s visibly rattled when they finally call for a break.

“Easy,” Mr. Seo instructs the staff who assist him onto the stool and pull his mouth guard away, strings of saliva finding purchase on his chin and then swiftly wiped off.

“What was that?” Mr. Seo questions. He’s stern, but still gentle in his speech, and Chan just shakes his head in response.

“Spit,” a staff member chimes in. Chan turns his head to expel a thick mix of saliva and bright crimson blood into a bucket, and then he holds it agape for a swig of water, swishing it over a deep cut on his inner lip before swallowing.

“Listen, you’re getting shaky out there,” Mr. Seo tells him. “What’s going on?”

“Where’s y/n?” Chan interjects, earning a deep sigh from Mr. Seo, who simply shrugs with his hands on his hips.

“Doesn’t matter,” he counters. “Don’t get distracted now. We’ve got three rounds left to win this thing.”

Chan’s shoulders seem to sag in disappointment, attempting to peer over his shoulder again for a glimpse of you, but Mr. Seo is quick to force Chan’s gaze back to him again.

“Listen to me,” he says sharply. “Get your head back on. You start getting distracted, and you’re practically handing him the belt. Focus.”

Chan hangs his head again, and then he nods understandingly, extending a hand to hoist himself back up.

“Two rounds,” Mr. Seo repeats. “Two more rounds, and you can take home the title. Knock him out.”

Chan nods again, as staff members tighten the velcro around his wrists once more, and then the timer reduces by the seconds, as he prepares to meet Kang-Dae in the center ring again.

When the boxing bell chimes twice for round eleven, Lin turns to you, arms folded at the elbows as she leans in to speak loudly above the chatter.

“Hey,” she says, and your head turns to meet her gaze.

She watches the match for a moment, admiring the sight of Chan dodging a hard jab, and then she resumes speaking.

“I know this series didn’t necessarily follow the footing you were expecting.”

You remain quiet, wanting for Lin to conclude her speech before producing any sort of response.

“But I wanted to say thank you. As of…” she glances at a wristwatch briefly, and then back to you, folding her arms again. “Fifteen minutes ago, we’re officially the most tuned-into channel for this fight. All because of your series.”

Your eyes widen when you meet her gaze properly, mouth parting in disbelief at her words.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious. Numbers are in, too- he averaged 15.2 thousand fans per broadcast. That’s more than twice of what we pulled in the last series.”

A breathy chuckle escapes your lips at the fact- it’s no secret this series was predicted to be huge for the channel, but you were hardly expecting to outdo your last by more than double the viewership.

Both your gazes fall to the ring, distracted momentarily at the sight of Chan delivering another hard jab to Kang-Dae’s side.

“I wanted to propose an offer,” Lin continues.

Your heartbeat quickens when she begins to speak the next part- perhaps she’ll convey to you that she knows broadcasting the moments which weren’t meant to be aired was wrong- and subsequently, it’ll be an offer to pull it from the channel entirely. Maybe she’ll acknowledge that you haven’t cared for this genre of series in a long while now, and suggest a transition to another topic.

“… for you to direct the next few parts, this time about his post-win life.”

You pause from viewing the match when she speaks, turning slowly to face her again, your expression visibly dropping at the proposal.

“Next… few parts?”

“That’s right. Seeing as he’s definitely going to win this thing, it’ll be huge. I’m thinking we can pivot to some… sports reality show, about Bang Chan only.”

She wears an amused smile on her face, nudging you with her elbow, as your gaze remains fixed on the match.

Below you, you watch Chan skillfully dodge a series of hooks, stumbling back on his feet.

And then in one swift movement, Kang-Dae delivers a strong uppercut to Chan’s left side, striking him hard in his jaw. You can hardly make out Chan’s demeanor when his whole body contorts to the left, his mitts coming up in an attempt to hold his jaw. But you can make out the unsightly image of blood and saliva trickling down the side of his mouth, and the way his eyes squeeze shut in a pained manner.

When the bell chimes five times to call for an end to round eleven, you shuffle quickly past Lin to the stairs, beginning your way down to where Chan’s team prepares a bucket and a towel. You don’t have any sort of plan devised, knowing very well that you’re prohibited from congregating in the midst of a match, but you make your descent anyway, overtaken with sheer panic at the sight of his weak silhouette.

“Hold that thought!” You call out to her, assisting yourself down the banister with the swift brush of your hand.

“What- where on earth are you going?” She calls, being met with no response, as she watches you near the blue corner of the ring.

“Is he okay?” You call out to Mr. Seo, quickly shuffling past Chan’s team to where he’s hoisted over the stool. His body lies limply back on the surface, chest rising and falling with short, sharp breaths as they dab blood from the corners of his mouth with a white towel.

Several members grant you entry to make your way closer to him, until you’re standing just behind his slouched figure, your hands coming up to grasp the ropes as you raise your voice.

“Chan!” You call, and he seems to straighten his posture, finally pivoting around to meet your gaze. His lips pull into a hazy smile, exposing his blue mouth guard, which drips with thick, stringy saliva, mixed with the harsh contrast of bright crimson blood. A single hand comes around to pull it out of him, instructing him to spit into a bucket. It’s Mr. Seo’s hand, you quickly realize, as Chan complies and swishes a mouthful of water over his wounds.

His brow appears bruised, a gaping cut being cleaned by several pairs of hands, and his shoulders look weak, you notice, as they work to loosen them up in massaging motions.

There’s no time to position him back into place, so Mr. Seo simply lets the conversation unfold between you two, dabbing at Chan’s bloodied wounds and understanding that leading you away is only going to distract him even more.

“I still haven’t been fully honest with you,” Chan begins to say to you, between labored breaths. Blood continues to dribble out from out between his lips, wiped away as fast as possible while the timer counts down until his return to the match.

“What?” You question, confused at the direction of his speech. You shake your head, aware he may simply be concussed, as your eyebrows arch in concern. “Chan, are you okay?”

“About what scares me,” Chan continues. He chuckles as he speaks, sounding almost crazy, as the etches of his gums are outlined again by deep crimson, dribbling onto his chapped lips.

“Losing scares the shit out of me,” Chan says to you. “But not just losing a match,” he clarifies.

Your eyebrows furrow as you watch a hand come around to dab at the gash on his brow again, the fresh white towel turning a dark shade of red as his blood soaks right through it.

“I never told you that I loved you,” Chan finishes.

You halt speaking, and perhaps also breathing, as his lips pull into a satisfied smile. “And that losing you is what scares me the most now.”

His team members glance at you curiously as they work to get him cleaned up, some of them just having seen you for the first time. A few of them know you to be the “filmmaker”, a little perplexed at his admission of romance to you. But before you can respond, Mr. Seo is shoving a guard back into his mouth and gesturing to the ring.

“Let’s go,” Mr. Seo commands. “Last round and we can bring this thing home. Let’s finish this at round twelve.”

Although Chan remains weak, he rises from the stool, kicking it aside and rolling back his shoulders. His gaze doesn’t leave yours for a moment, shooting you a saccharine smile, before pivoting back toward the ring and tapping his mitts together.

“Let’s finish this at round twelve,” he repeats, eyeing Kang-Dae’s figure from across the room.

And you say nothing- somewhere between dazed and also in love, as you begin back toward your seat.

The boxing bell rings just twice to indicate the start to round twelve- or otherwise the start of what could be the very last round in this match.

“And so we begin round twelve of this historic confrontation, between undefeated champ Bang Chan and his opponent Kang-Dae,” an announcer echoes loudly over the arena. Chan coming in again with strong jabs, appeared to be fully re energized as he corners Kang-Dae in the ring again.”

Your view of him is much more intimate than it was prior to being stood here on the outskirts of the ring. You can now observe every minuscule bead of sweat that flies off either member when the other produces a hit, and the thumping echos of their jabs are much louder at this proximity.

“This is certainly an adjustment by Kang-Dae,” the announcer states. “He seems to be quicker on his footwork. Chan seems like he’s resuming with heavy punches like before, but he’s still stumbling a little bit.”

Your heart races at their words, taking note of the way he visibly falters when Kang-Dae delivers a punch to his chest.

At the sight of Chan pivoting to dodge an uppercut, you glance around at the spectators, observing the sea of people whose eyes all remain set on his stumbling figure. They gasp when he gets hit once more, and they seem to laugh when he regains his balance, his arms darting out to strike Kang-Dae’s torso.

They flaunt colorful face paint, parade signs with images of his smiling face and shout for him to “fight, win!” as though their discoordinate voices may somehow be the defining factor of tonight’s outcome. And upon closer inspection, they even twirl sherbet popsicles around in their grasp, devouring them with such desperation, as though they could ever begin to comprehend the sacredness of Bang Chan’s favorite dessert- something entirely out of his reach now, unattainable. Much like a life not tainted by the pressure to win is.

It’s only then that you realize the deep sense of discomfort the sight instills within you- it’s entirely unnerving to be entertained by his fear- and even his pain, like this. To consume the sacred intricacies of his life, to know him at such proximity and put him on a pedestal like some higher power. Only to rob him of all things sacred, televise his secrets and serve as a stepping-stone into a life he never wanted for himself. Whether it be the relativity of a spectator to his public image, or of a lover to his vulnerability, it feels wrong. You can make sense of why Chan hadn’t wanted to do this for a good amount of his life now- it feels entirely too voyeuristic.

“… The current unofficial score reads 10-9, still in favor of Bang Chan,” the announcer reads. “Who’s keen on uppercuts- but Kang-Dae certainly isn't far behind with his jabs.”

Chan dodges another harsh jab, producing a strong hit to Kang-Dae, who appears breathless as he regains his composure.

“Folks, this could be the night Bang Chan maintains his unbroken winning streak, putting him ahead of all boxers in the Golden Gloves Championships for the last 20 years.”

The audience erupts in another wave of cheers when Chan hits Kang-Dae again, and again, producing repeated, robust punches to his torso.

You shift your weight onto your toes to catch a better glimpse of him, admiring the way he clenches his jaw angrily, fists spread to shield his face.

And at just 30 seconds to the conclusion of round twelve, Kang-Dae strikes again, lunging forward to deliver a harsh uppercut to Chan’s lower right jaw.

At first he stumbles backward a little bit- and then he seems to loose his balance entirely, collapsing onto the ground beneath him, his mitts outspread to soften the landing.

Although the arena is louder than ever before, it seems to grow almost silent as you hold your breath.

You approach the ring a little closer, your eyes scanning over Chan’s lying figure, his eyes blinking in a dizzied state as the recess lights illuminate his glistening torso.

He’s bloodied, in several more areas now, a generous stream of crimson growing in a patch on the side of his right eye.

You call for him once, and a second time, and then a third time- to no avail.

Perhaps your screams only escape from between your lips as whispers, if at all- that, you can’t tell, as the sound of your own heartbeat drowns out the physical noise of the arena.

A comforting hand is felt on your back, quickly realized to be Lin, from out of your peripheral vision, who watches equally as paralyzed.

The referee makes his way to Bang Chan, beginning to count down aloud, as the audience scream from all sides of the room at him.

“Get up!” They say, making erratic motions with the wave of their hands.

“You can still win!” Another is heard shouting, their voice in a clear state of panic.

“10, 9, 8…”

And as Chan lies, his back parallel to the floor of the ring, he remembers the feeling of this beside you, your languid figures silently relishing in the presence of one another.

Even with eyes shut tightly, Chan swears he can still see pairs of eyes observing him carefully, analyzing his every move and holding him to the standards of a consistent winner. Angle your fist upward. Quicker on the footwork. Harder. Faster.

Atta boy. Be a man. Be a winner.

It’s only when his coach has gone home for the evening, when the other athletes file out of the training gym one by one, towels slung over their broad shoulders and duffel bags packed with spare gloves and changes of clothes. It’s when he’s the last shower of the night, letting scorching water roll off his toned body, steam fogging the mirrors until his own reflection is indistinguishable to him once more. And it’s when he’s concluded throwing practice punches in the now-empty ring, his muscular back parallel to the floor of the ring just like this, and his eyes fixed on the gray industrial ceilings and recess lights. It’s only then that he isn’t so easily defined by a winning streak.

In fact, his wins mean nothing in the absence of other athletes, who are also defined by the numerical realities of trophies gained and matches lost. The world feels much clearer to him like this, no longer clouded by the gym chatter and bruised knuckles that seek permanent shelter in his conscience. He’s just Bang Chan- not a winner, not even a boxer. Just Chan.

And though he allows it to consume him entirely, often replacing his curiosity for the world around him and a lingering loneliness with the insatiable appetite to fight, win, conquer- he knows deep down that it’s still not all of him. There remains a sort of fragility tucked somewhere beyond all this rigidness- there’s still a heavy humanness underneath these conjectures that he’s the ‘perfect boxer’.

What is a winning streak relative to an empty boxing ring? What is a spectator relative to a participant? What are concealed identities relative to a lifetime of falsifying new ones?

“6, 5 …” the referee continues.

From well beyond his position, he can hear something about the historic event of watching a boxer lose his winning streak for the first time in his career, amidst the crescendoing sounds of simultaneous cheering and booing alike.

Kang-Dae jogs in place, tapping his own mitts together as he awaits Chan’s next move, mentally pushing for the second hand on the timer to move faster than 2mm per second.

“4…”

Yet Chan remains there, parallel to the floor of the ring he was practically raised in, letting a gush of crimson now conceal his sight, as his head cocks to one side in defeat.

“3, 2, 1.”

The word “loser” is uttered somewhere in the announcement of his loss, as Kang-Dae’s fist is raised victoriously in the air by the referee, preceding the loud blow of a whistle and another uproar of cheers.

And although the word rings throughout his ears like he’d always feared it would, it doesn’t sound nearly as scary as he imagined it might.

In fact, you’d have thought he won the match, by the way his lips pull into a satisfied smile, as the weight of a lifetime is lifted off his shoulders at last.

EPILOGUE

Calloused hands adjust the lavalier microphone a little higher up onto the collar of Chan’s button-down shirt, his fingers easing through the process, as he’s already done this a dozen times now.

He raises his index finger up to his right brow, running it along the row of butterfly bandages still adhered to the gaping wound he boasts, and your hand darts out instinctively to stop him, lowering his wrist back onto his lap.

“I said don’t touch it,” you instruct him.

He seems to wear an amused smile for the millionth time today, as though maybe he’s doing it on purpose to elicit a reaction from you.

Chan observes as you scribble something onto a stack of papers, your head lowered in concentration to review a long list of questions.

And then you meet his gaze finally, mirroring his smile with one of your own, as you gesture to the camera.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” you say to him. “Just answer as honestly as you can.”

“Are we rolling?” Chan asks, and he’s swiftly met with a nod of your head.

“Yeah,” you say to him. “We’re rolling.”

His hands fold in his lap, the jingle of his silver bracelet making itself known as he fiddles nervously, and then you start with the first question.

“Chan,” you begin. “You recently lost your first boxing match ever.”

He nods, not appearing disappointed, but rather contented, as he crosses his legs at the ankles.

“Can you tell us how you’re feeling?”

His eyes scan the ceiling momentarily, chuckling softly, before he speaks again.

“Nobody wants to lose,” Chan admits. “When I started boxing fourteen years ago, all I wanted to do was win. And I won consistently- at some point, losing ceased to even feel like a possibility. I hadn’t considered it very seriously.”

You nod as he speaks, and then Chan swallows nervously, before continuing.

“And then I began to think about losing,” he says. “And I couldn’t stop. The thoughts consumed me, to constantly imagine putting myself in the shoes of somebody who had to walk away from something so… unvictoriously.”

He sighs, and then he shrugs his shoulders just once.

“And now I’m a loser,” he finishes. “And I realize that there’s a lot more to boxing than just winning or losing. In fact, there’s more to the word than simply being a person who didn’t come out of it unvictorious.”

“What do you mean by that?” You say to him.

“Well,” he begins. “Prior to this event, I was fully set on forfeiting the whole thing. It’s something I had wanted to do for a long time- something I felt was right, in the midst of my aversion to this… vulnerable version of myself, that I kept tucked away from the public for my whole life.”

His expression grows serious now, brows furrowed as best as he can manipulate them, in deep concentration.

“And I realized that walking away from something you’ve always wanted, in response to a fear of your vulnerability- that’s unvictorious. I was scared for people to see me as any less than a strong, consistent winner. But that’s not realistic.”

You nod as Chan speaks, shooting him a proud smile- he’s allowing himself to be vulnerable on camera for the first time since you’ve met him. And though his voice shakes a little as he speaks, he conveys his truths so elegantly, the same way he did when you first interviewed him. He upholds this new image of him with such dexterity, careful not to accidentally portray a version of himself which might somehow contradict all that he’s learned. Yet it’s easier than he assumed it would be, he quickly realizes, when he finishes with a small nod of his head.

“I might be a loser in the sense of a boxing match,” he explains. “But relative to everything else I’ve gained along the way, I feel pretty victorious.”

You glance down at your papers, brushing your fingers over the next set of printed questions, and then you disregard them entirely when you meet his gaze again, producing your own now.

“You’re stepping down from being a boxer for the first time in your life,” you say to him. “Are you scared?”

Chan thinks it over momentarily, and then he shakes his head.

“I used to get punched by people for a living. There used to be so little that actually scared me.”

Your lips pull into a smile, recalling this conversation from long before his championship match.

“That being said-” he continues. “I’m terrified. But I guess that’s just a part of being honest with yourself. I’m just going to do it afraid.”

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, your eyes not leaving his as he observes the way you smile back at him. He’s just as charming as the day you met him- but he’s also real, and fascinating from this distance, made more perfect by extension of all his very human traits. His fears, reservations, embarrassments, frustrations- they’re all a part of who he is- not some “perfect boxer”, or a “born winner”, but simply Bang Chan- an imperfect boxer with one hell of a story to tell.

“Chan- what’s next for you?” You ask Chan, cocking your head slightly as you speak.

A breathy chuckle escapes his lips, his eyebrows raised curiously as he ponders the question.

“I’ll return to boxing someday,” he confesses. “It’s been an honorable 14 years here. I’m just going to find what else makes me tick. Maybe… pick up a thing or two about journalism?”

You laugh lightly when he does, shaking your head in response.

Of course he jests on the topic of journalism, knowing very well that you too, are set to take a break from this line of work following the air of the final interview.

With Chan losing the fight, Lin had begged you to rope him into another series, knowing that the general public had not faulted Chan for his broken winning streak. In fact, they had taken a larger liking to him than ever before, publishing raving reviews about his persistence to compete, despite his fears. And though you’d been offered a hefty pay to film another voyeuristic series into some new athlete’s life- a fencer, so you’ve heard, the offer was politely declined, as you opt to follow Chan on to the next chapter.

“Only if you teach me a thing or two about boxing,” you say to him, and he holds out a hand to shake on it.

“Deal.”

“That’s a wrap,” you tell Chan, as you press the shutter release one last time, detaching your camera from its tripod and stowing it away into its leather casing.

“Last time, huh?” A voice says from behind you.

You pivot on your heel to meet the gaze of Mr. Seo, who shoots you a kind smile as he makes his entrance, giving Chan a friendly pat on the back.

“Hey!” Chan exclaims, turning around to deliver a warm hug to him, instead.

“I was just leaving for the evening,” Mr. Seo tells you both, his hands on his hips. He then raises his eyebrows knowingly, glancing around at the gym, before gesturing to the wall with a cock of his head.

“Come on,” he says. “I wanna show you one last thing.”

You both exchange confused looks, and then oblige to follow him down the hallway into the ring, where he halts just in front of the gallery wall.

You crane your necks up to the portraits- all the familiar faces remain in their respective positions, except for the addition of one new photograph, concealed by a white sheet.

Before Chan can inquire about the recent addition, Mr. Seo pulls it off ceremoniously, letting the white fabric drape onto the floor of the gym to unveil a brand new photo.

This one’s in color, for the first time, the stark contrast of the bright blue mitts against his tanned skin drawing the attention of all your eyes. It’s a still shot of Bang Chan, his fists extended into a mean uppercut, eyebrows narrowed into a stern expression as he strikes at his opponent. You recognize it to be from the night of Chan’s title fight, and although he hadn’t taken home the title that evening, the photograph is no indication of any form of loss. In fact, he’s entirely indistinguishable from the rest of the winners housed on the wall- including Baik Hyun-Man, who now lives just to the left of him.

“You’re kidding,” Chan exclaims through tearful laughter. Mr. Seo just smiles, shrugging casually in response.

“All the greats are meant to live here,” he tells Chan. “Especially the winners.”

Before Mr. Seo makes his departure, the same black duffel bag hoisted over his shoulder, he stops in his tracks, turning to Chan with a sense of urgency in his voice.

“I almost forgot,” Mr. Seo exclaims. “Popsicles!”

“What?” Chan questions with a small chuckle.

“I found them finally, in the convenience store on the south side! I left them on the table for you toward the gallery wall, though. You’d better eat them before they melt.”

And then he’s off at last, the setting sun outlining his departing figure beyond the glass gym doors.

Chan does as he’s told, retrieving what are indeed his favorite sherbet popsicles from the table by the gallery wall, and providing you with one this time.

“You’re gonna love these,” he says to you, undoing the wrapper of both your popsicles and discarding them both on the gym floor.

“You’re making a mess!” You exclaim, as Chan shoves one into your grasp, instructing you to devour it entirely.

You bring the bright orange dessert up to your lips, taking a small lick, and Chan eagerly awaits your reaction.

“Well?” He questions, beginning on his own in the process.

“That’s phenomenal,” you say to him with a chuckle, taking another lick, and then another, and several more, the dessert quickly melting in your grasp and finding purchase along your forearms.

Chan laughs, too, bringing his lips down to your arm to trace his tongue along the trail of sticky sherbet and leaving a trail of tender kisses as he cleans you up. And then he kisses you just once when he’s finished, a sweet mixture of sherbet present on both your tongues as you bite back a smile.

When he pulls away to resume working on his popsicle, he cranes his neck up at the gallery wall once more, cocking his head to examine the rows of portraits.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, the way he always does, and you chuckle lightly in response.

“No need to interview the interviewer,” you say instinctively. And then you hum softly as you crane your neck, too, remembering you’re no longer an interviewer relative to Bang Chan, but rather comfortably in love with him, as you move onto the next chapter alongside each other.

“I’m thinking about all these boxers,” you opt to say instead. “Like, where do you think Hyun-Man is now?”

Chan hums in response, shrugging at your question. It’s a strange thought when he remembers how future spectators will be pondering his whereabouts someday, as they hold their respective gazes on this very wall.

“I don’t think he’d want us to know,” Chan confesses. “I think he purposely left us only with tales of guts and glory to remember him by.”

He tilts his head the other direction now, working his tongue along the base of his popsicle, before speaking again.

“Through tales of mine, of guts and glory,” Chan voices deeply, mimicking the renowned boxer’s famous last speech. And then his words are pacified by his popsicle, as he relishes in the flavor of something finally sacred to him once more.

But neither of you need to utter another word to conclude his sentence, mentally finishing it on your own.

“… we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried.”

473 notes · View notes

pomefioredove · 3 months

Note

Okay okay, hear me out. Lilia with the quote “trouble never looked so goddam fine”. I can imagine as the parental figure of Diasomnia he tries to set a good example even with his playful behavior. No clue if you write for him so this is a bit of a shot in the dark. Have a lovely day/night ♡

I write soo much lilia 🫡 this was a really fun prompt!!

summary: "trouble never looked so goddamn fine." type of post: short fic characters: lilia additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, flirting is MAYBE a little suggestive if you want to read it that way, reader flirts back a liiiittle bit

"And... please... no trouble," Silver says, already sounding weary at the thought of the night to come.

Lilia tilts his head to the side, feigning innocence.

"Me? Trouble? Never," he says.

"...Though I'm wounded by your lack of faith! You know I wouldn't do anything to scare them off!"

Silver sighs. "Alright. They just mean a great deal to Malleus, and I'll be busy watching Sebek all night so he doesn't deafen them,"

Lilia chuckles; he's tempted to tell Silver to relax a little, it's just a small dinner with Malleus' new friend, nothing to worry about!

...Though, he has to admit, he is very much looking forward to meeting this mysterious individual.

"They're older than I expected," Silver mutters, looking towards the door as Malleus leads you inside.

Curious, Lilia thinks, though he only responds to Silver with a nod.

Malleus pulls out a chair for the prefect like a proper gentleman. You thank everyone for having you over. How cute.

"...I do hope you've met Sebek, being in the same year. Next to him is Silver, another one of my knights-in-training, and this is Lilia Vanrouge,"

Lilia waves, his mind wandering to a dangerous place as he smiles at you from across the table, cradling his chin in his palm.

Malleus starts explaining the architectural history of the building, and you nod along, making a valiant effort to listen.

...Though (and much to his delight), Lilia still catches you stealing glances in his direction.

He knows he's supposed to behave, but trouble never looked so damn fine.

Silver asks something about the statues on the building, and sets Malleus off on another tangent about the differences between gargoyles and grotesques...

Something you've probably heard before, if your silence is any indication.

Lilia takes the opportunity to make his move, tentatively nudging his shoe against yours from under the table.

Your eyes dart towards him, perhaps expecting an apology; he smiles, giving you an open invitation instead.

You glance between him and the others, then return the nudge.

Oh, this is fun.

Lilia hasn't felt so restless in ages. Having to stay relatively still and discreet is killing him.

But he is nothing if not patient. He has all the time in the world.

He leans against his elbows, teasingly rubbing up the side of your leg while you try to answer a question, flustered.

You're quite the entertaining thing, he'll give you that.

Lilia could easily take this a step further, and he's almost tempted to do so. Then-

"Fa-Lilia, are you listening?" Silver says, momentarily stumbling over his words. You raise an eyebrow at the slip up, but are apparently too polite to ask.

"Hm?"

"Malleus asked you to tell the Prefect about your travels,"

Malleus nods, smiling softly. "I think they would enjoy them, they're quite interesting,"

You return the smile, turning your attention back to Lilia. "I think I would,"

He tilts his head to the side, almost intrigued by the mysterious lilt in your tone, before he feels you returning the teasing gesture from earlier.

"Go on, I'm at the edge of my seat,"

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #lilia vanrouge x reader #queued

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monzabee · 10 months

Text

bad idea right? – ln4

masterlist

Summary: The one where seeing Lando tonight is a bad idea, right?

Pairing: lando norris x ricciardo!reader

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: mentions of breakups and also fighting, cursing, kind of a toxic relationship?, allusion to smut, it's criminal how long it took me to finish this fic

Request: this wasn’t requested, but the idea is veeery loosely from this tiktok right here! (i might def write the scenario in the tiktok in the future though)

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! it has officially been a month since i started my master's programme and i have to say it is absolutely kicking my ass, but thank you all for bearing with me while i adjust! this song has been stuck in my head for the last two-three (?) months and i really wanted to write a fic based on it. i also wanted to say that i've received all of your guys' requests, and i'm working on those, but it's harder for me to get out a request than a fic that just popped in my head because i tend to be more of a perfectionist with those - so, those are definitely on the way, don't worry! i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.

It’s not that you don’t like spending time with your brother and his girlfriend – because you do, but considering the fact that spending a mere hour with them causes you to suddenly question your life choices (of being single), you are very eager to leave them alone for the night. Which brings us to the current situation, with you standing in front of your brother’s apartment complex in one of the hoodies you stole from the sample boxes, waiting for someone you should’ve never hit up in the first place. It was probably not your brightest idea to message Lando to ask him if he wants to go for a ride, especially because a) the last time you saw him a year ago the two of you were yelling and throwing things at each other and b) you’re definitely buzzed from the bottle of wine you hogged upstairs. But you know what they say; absence makes the heart go fonder, right?

So there you are with your phone in your hand, texting Lily in hopes of getting the tiniest bit of reassurance about your decision.

To lily m: i texted lando To lily m: he’s gonna pick me up From lily m: WHAT? NO To lily m: seeing him tonight To lily m: it’s a bad idea, right? From lily m: YES From lily m: DO NOT GET INTO THAT CAR To lily m: yes i know that he’s my ex, but can’t two people reconnect?

Fuck it, it’s fine, you decide as you quickly delete the last two messages. With a soft sigh, you wrap your arms around yourself to shield yourself from the cold air of the night. And while you could just wait for Lando inside the apartment building, you really don’t want to attract more attention to yourself. You can feel yourself getting more and more nervous as the minutes pass by, and you even contemplate cancelling the whole thing and going upstairs to sleep. Just as you’re about to give up on the whole thing, a car honk grabs your attention. When turn to look at the source of the sound, you see Lando’s unamused face through the open window.

He motions you to get in with his head, his voice as equally detached as he calls out, “Get in.”

Rolling your eyes at his behaviour, you do as your told. But you tell yourself that it’s not because he told you to, but because you’re cold. And so you get in the car making sure you slam the door as hard as you can, which makes him scowl as a small smile forms on your lips. “You know, you could really try on being more polite.”

“I’m picking you up in the middle of the night,” he points out as he puts the car on drive and starts driving off, “and put your damn seatbelt on.”

You give him a sideway glance as you put on your seatbelt, letting out a sigh, “Are you okay? I’m sensing some serious undertone.”

Lando doesn’t answer you, mainly because he is smarter than he looks and he knows you’re trying to goad him into another fight. That’s what the two of you had always done, not that he hated you or vice versa, but the two of you mainly got along in fights which ended up in both of you twisted between the sheets of the whatever hotel you were currently staying in. And it had worked for a while, until of course it didn’t, and Lando was mature enough to admit that he had a huge role in fucking up your relationship.

“You changed your car,” you point out.

“Thought you’d appreciate a roof over your head this time,” he replies.

The car is silent as Lando drives down the now empty streets of Monte Carlo, and you find yourself involuntarily checking out his side profile because well, he always looked so good while driving. You suppose it’s only one of the things that didn’t change with time.

“So,” his voice draws you out from your thoughts, “why’d you call me tonight? Are you drunk?”

“I am not drunk,” you scoff, crossing your arms across your chest, “if you don’t feel like being here Lando, I can just get off and go home.”

“Now I didn’t say that, I simply asked a question.” He steals another glance at you, but this time a little smirk forms on his lips when your eyes meet and he sees your scowl. “It was a harmless question, really.”

Your voice comes off as clipped as you answer, “I’m not drunk.”

“Your cheeks are red,” Lando points out but the playfulness from mere seconds ago is gone, in fact, he’s more serious than you’ve probably ever seen him, “you either had wine or your rosacea is acting up.”

It takes a moment for you to take in his words, and there is no humour in his voice or on his face when you look at him to see whether he’s joking or not. “I had some wine,” you confess, voice much lower than before as you add, “but I’m not drunk.” One of his eyebrows rise up, and you find yourself mumbling, “Fine maybe a little bit, but not a lot.”

His jaw ticks as he mumbles, “Okay, whatever you say.” And as you try to assess whether his voice is cold or not, you see his hands tightening around the steering wheel.

“What?” You ask, a bit quicker than necessary (in your opinion), “What did I say?”

Now it’s his turn for his voice to be clipped, and his eyebrows furrow as he asks, “Did you only call me because you’re drunk?”

“No,” your reply is truthful to some extent, you suppose, you would’ve texted him even if you had no alcohol in your system. “I wanted to see you.”

He lets out a hum, “Why?”

It’s a hard question, and you contemplate not being a hundred percent honest – but deep down you know he deserves better, even if you had your differences. So, to reveal the truth, you turn your face away from him to look outside the window, “I missed you.”

He doesn’t say anything, and you don’t turn to see what his reaction will be. Everything is peaceful for a moment.

He takes you to a hill, the very one he took you for your first date. Though, it doesn’t carry the same excitement this time around. The two of you remain in the car with the windows rolled down, but the colder air doesn’t make you chilly. It’s silent, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. Neither of you make the first move to start a conversation, and you don’t know if that’s because you’re both obstinate or he doesn’t want to be there. Though, you suspect he would’ve told you ‘no’ if he didn’t want to be there – not that he could ever tell you ‘no’.

It's unnaturally hard, you realise, not looking at him on purpose when he’s seated so close to you. Especially because you haven’t seen him in months. Not that you’d confess that to him, or let yourself have another weak moment where you say you missed him. Because you can’t. Because it’s not the way the two of you operate. Because he broke your heart but you’re not strong enough to let him go. With that last thought, you take a sharp breath, undo your seatbelt and get out of the car. You lean against the hood of the car and he soon follows suit. But where your hands are splayed behind your back, his arms are crossed over his chest.

“You’ve not been sleeping.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. Because he is not dumb (or blind enough) to let the circles under your eyes slide.

And it’s a statement that might be true. You only give him half of a shrug, “So?”

“It means that something is bothering you.” You’re about to object, but he quickly shuts you down, “I once drove you around for four hours so you could sleep in my car, honey,” his fingers move to gently turn your chin towards him so he can look into your eyes, “and that was because you forgot to bring me back junk food from Australia.”

Even if you’re taken aback by his physical touch, you don’t show it as you stubbornly maintain your eye contact. “It’s the jet lag, I haven’t travelled in a while.” You gulp down a breath as you gently push his hand away, “And don’t call me that.”

“Why?” He turns his body to face you, “You’re just as sweet, aren’t you?”

“Lando,” you warn him, “don’t.”

He raises a brow, “Why not?”

“Because we’re friends,” your response comes off in an instant, “I only see you as a friend.” The biggest lie you’ve ever said.

“Friends,” he repeats, tests out the word, then shrugs, “sure. Now tell me what happened tonight that made you call me. Did you and Daniel fight?”

“What?” an involuntary laugh leaves your lips, and you catch the corner of his lips turning upwards just the smallest bit. “No, we didn’t, it’s not about Daniel. Can we just not talk about it, please?”

He gives you a firm nod, and you catch his grimace as he turns his attention back to the view in front of you. “You can tell me, you know,” he mumbles, “you used to.”

He’s right, you realise. You used to tell him all the little thought that popped into your head, whether it was nice or not, and he’d accommodated your thoughts. It was easier to talk to him, once upon a time, and you’re not really sure why it hurts so much right now that you can’t.

“Why do you care?” The question comes out quickly, and your voice is not as strong as you’d like it to be. “After everything, why do you care?”

“We’re friends, right?” The words tastes unbelievably sour in his mouth, and he has to restrain himself from making any sort of face, but it seems harder than it actually is for him to do and he questions whether it is worth it to

“Friends,” this time it’s your turn to test out the word, and it tastes as bitter as they come, “sure, can we ride around a bit more?”

“Fine,” he gives you a nod and motions you to get in the car, “but I have to get gas first.”

The fluorescent lighting of the gas station is definitely not the most flattering thing. So much so that you’re sure the unflattering light outside is exaggerating the bags under your eyes. But that situation of course doesn’t apply to Lando because even under the harsh lighting, he looks too pretty. And compared to earlier in the night, you don’t try to hide the way your eyes focus on him while he’s driving, though you hope you do a much better job at hiding the thoughts that come to your mind. Even after he’s parked the car in the nearest pump, you find yourself staring at his side profile a bit too long, which earns you a sideway smirk and you try your hardest not to react, but the smile you keep trying to fight is too strong and eventually you find yourself with the tiniest smile playing on your lips.

Lando turns towards you, meets your eyes and leans over the console, “Do you want anything from the shop?”

You blink once, trying to come up with anything, twice, then “Can you get me those gummy bears that I like?”

He gives you another nod, reaches into his pocket and then hand you his phone. Ignoring your questioning stare, he explains, “So that you can play music or something, the password is still the same.” Before he gets out of the car, he does the unexpected and leans in just a little bit more to press a feather-light kiss to your temple.

You watch him get out of the car and walk away from you with your mouth slightly hanging open. You contemplate trying to unlock the phone, because why would he tell you that his password is the same? And why would he trust you with his phone when the two of you have been broken up for over a year? With shaky hands, your fingers put in the password, calling Lando’s bluff. Oh shit, you think when the phone unlocks, now what? Throwing the phone out of your hands onto the driver seat, you grab your own and quickly type a new message to Kika, who of course got the news from Lily and has been blowing up your phone, while ignoring her dozen other messages who went unread in your text thread.

To kika: this was a bad idea kika Tokika: a very *very* bad idea From kika: please tell me you’re going home To kika: um… To kika: sure From kika: GET OUT OF THAT CAR AND GET YOUR ASS HOME From kika: NOW!!

Chewing on your lower lip, your eyes linger on the messages spamming your phone, and you contemplate just getting out of the car and trying to find your way back home. But you also can’t help yourself but think… what’s the worst that could happen if you stayed? Clicking the button on the side of your phone, you place it face down on your lap after making sure you silence it for the rest of the night. With the reminder of the abandoned phone on the seat next to yours, you open your window to let some of the night air in. As your phone keeps buzzing on your lap, your eyes focus on the figure that comes out of the convenience store – and by some grace of God, he doesn’t realise the way your eyes basically undress him as he approaches his McLaren.

There’s no smile on his face, in fact, if you didn’t know Lando, you’d say he looks like an asshole; not that he occasionally doesn’t act like one. He gives you that boyish smirk when he’s next to your window, signalling you to roll it down by tapping on it twice. Lando leans against the car, his eyes locked onto yours. “Got your gummy bears,” he says, holding up the package and handing it to you once you roll it down. “It was the last one too, you’re lucky.”

Giving a tight lipped smile to the man looking expectantly at you, you accept the packet of gummy bears. “Thank you, Lando,” the softening look in his eyes is, ironically, strong enough for you to choke on the next words that are on the tip of your tongue. “I–”

“I’m sorry to bother you, are you Lando Norris?” A third voice interrupts you, and you find yourself moving your gaze from Lando to the woman who’s excitedly waiting for a response.

“Yes,” he breathes out, and you can tell he’s trying to keep his voice polite but he’s also very annoyed at the same time – though the way he eyes up the stranger definitely makes your blood boil.

With his attention on the woman, you find yourself feel the tension in the air and quickly look down at the packet of gummy bears in your hands. You start absentmindedly picking at the wrapper, your mind racing with a mixture of emotions. As the conversation between Lando and the fan continues, you steal glances at them from the corner of your eye. She's gushing about a recent race, talking animatedly about the thrilling moments she witnessed. Lando, for his part, is gracious and engaged, taking the time to listen and respond. And despite the polite exchange, you can't help but feel a pang of jealousy. It's a reminder of the world he's a part of, a world where fans approach him with admiration and excitement. A world you used to share, but now only observe from the sidelines.

You watch the woman place her hand on Lando’s bicep, laughing at a (rather mediocre) joke he made about the understeer of the car. It’s not a funny joke by any means, and you are not scared to admit that the woman’s laugh that fills your ears makes your insides twist uncomfortably. You remind yourself that you're here by choice. You could have left at any moment. But there's something about this night, about being with Lando again, that you can't quite let go of. It's a confusing mix of nostalgia and longing, wrapped in a blanket of uncertainty.

The woman’s voice hits your ears as you hear her ask, “Do you want to come back to my place?”

Without letting them both know that you’re actively listening into their conversation, you attempt to subtly let out a warning cough, but Lando covertly smirks as he leans towards the car with his hand grabbing the lowered window – without caring about the possible finger prints he might leave behind, might you add. Without any hesitation, you let your fingers go of the packaging to thread your fingers with his.

While his thumb gently starts to draw circles on the knuckle of your thumb, he does his best to supress the chuckle building up in his throat. “That’s, um, very kind – but I’m with my girl, you see, and we are both pretty tired.”

Maybe you would’ve given her a friendly smile over a misunderstanding if you were in a better mood, but as the woman looks at you with wild eyes, all you can offer her is an annoyed pout, and soon after she leaves after apologising to you both for interrupting your plans. You watch her leave until there is a good enough distance for her to not hear you, and then turn to Lando and give him a glare as you hiss, “I am not ‘your girl’.”

He finally lets out the chuckle he’s been holding as he watches you letting go of his hand with an exaggerated push, and then diverts his amused eyes towards you, “Sure, whatever you say, jealous girl.”

“I am not– I wasn’t jealous!” you exclaim, eyes narrowed. When he starts walking towards the driver’s side, you can’t help but call out, “I’m not jealous!”

Lando is still chuckling to himself when he gets in the car, and even as he starts driving, completely ignoring your whining complaints. “That’s alright, honey,” he says, voice full of condescension, “it was very cute.”

“You are an ass.” You roll your eyes as you cross your arms across your chest. “Maybe I should’ve gotten off when I had the chance, that way you could’ve fucked her in the back seat.”

“Bold of you assume she’s the one I’d want to fuck in my back seat,” he raises an eyebrow, then shrugs “but sure.”

Your face scrunches up in disgust, “You’re, ugh, you’re just the worst, Lando.” Shaking your head in disbelief, you add, “I can’t believe I’m arguing with you over you fucking girls in your car.”

Lando manages to get out a disapproving tut, and then contends, “I never said I’d fuck girls in my car, I’d said I’d rather fuck you in my car.”

Completely baffled by this revelation, not that you should’ve been, you turn to him in disgust, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He shrugs again, noncommittally, and without paying you any mind continues to focus on the road.

“Well,” you laugh, breathlessly, “good thing that’s never happening.” Gently clearing your throat, you later can’t help yourself but add a silent, “Again.”

“If you’d rather a bed, that could also be arranged, honey.” Lando assures you, and you realise the little fucker has a smirk growing on his face.

“As if I’d sleep with you willingly,” you scoff.

A boisterous laugh is what you get from Lando, who tilts his head towards you, “Come on, I’m a good-looking bloke.”

“And I’m sure I’ve seen much hotter man,” you sing, but you just can’t remember when. So deciding to block out what Lando is rambling about, you pull out your phone to message someone who has the answer for you.

To lily m + kika: can you tell me someone who is hotter than lando? From lily m: alex From kika: pierre To lily m + kika: ew, be serious please From kika: what about the guy with the accent, from hungary? From lily m: the doctor? To lily m + kika: i think she meant the reporter From lily m: god no he was a creep From lily m: what about the surfer? From kika: oh yeah he was cute too To lily m + kika: i need someone hot, pleaseee From lily m: THE MODEL FROM MILAN From kika: WITH THE ABS From kika: and also porche From lily m: BUT ALSO THE ABS To lily m + kika: okay thanks To lily m + kika: love you guys

Getting lost in the conversation, with the aid of your ambition to prove yourself right and, naturally, Lando wrong, you don’t realise that he’s actually driven you back to his apartment instead of a bar or literally some other place that sells alcohol in that ungodly hour.

“This isn’t a bar.” You point out, eyebrows furrowed.

Lando dignifies your comment with a scoff, “Well aren’t you quite the detective?”

Crossing your arms across your chest, you basically hiss at him this time, “This is basically kidnapping.”

Lando glances at you, a playful glint in his eyes. “Kidnapping? Really? I thought we were just catching up.”

You shoot him a sarcastic look, but can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Yeah, sure. Catching up in the middle of the night at your place.”

He parks the car and turns to face you, a smirk dancing on his lips. “Well, here’s my proposal. I’ll go to my apartment and you’re free to either join me or drive my car back to Daniel’s – I’ll come pick it up tomorrow.”

You hesitate for a moment, considering your options as you watch Lando give you an assuring smile and handing you the keys before getting out of the car. Going back to your brother's place doesn't sound all that appealing, and Lando's offer, as questionable and a bad idea as it may be, seems like the lesser of two evils. Though, there is also the reality that if when you go up to his apartment, you’re probably going to do something that either you or your friends will regret tomorrow morning. Watching Lando’s retreating figure move further into the apartment building, you think, fuck it, it’s fine.

So, you wait for a few minutes, anxiously twirling the car keys in your hand to make him wait – but you’re pretty sure it makes you suffer just as much. You take a deep breath, exhale slowly, and then climb out of the car. Locking it behind you, you follow Lando into the building. The familiar scent of his cologne hits you as you step into the elevator, and a wave of nostalgia washes over you. The elevator ride going up to the second floor is pure torture, and it leaves you squirming in your place the whole time. Basically throwing yourself out of the elevator once it lands on the second floor, you realise that Lando has been waiting for you, standing and smiling at his door.

He gives you a teasing look as you approach, clearly amused by your slightly dishevelled state. “Took you long enough,” he remarks, unlocking the door and holding it open for you. But instead of saying anything or retorting back, you quietly follow him inside his apartment. Lando closes the door behind you, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment. The dim lighting casts a soft glow, creating an intimate atmosphere. The first thing that catches your eye is the helmet collection he keeps in the living room. Without saying anything, you quickly make your way over to the shelves that display the helmets, trying your best to avoid his approaching footsteps behind you. The familiar design of a particular helmet has you instinctively tracing the number at the top, and the arms that hug your waist from behind makes you freeze for a moment. Lando's touch is both familiar and foreign, stirring up a mix of emotions you thought were long buried.

“That's from Monza, 2021,” he says, his voice close to your ear. The warmth of his breath sends a shiver down your spine.

You clear your throat, attempting to regain composure. “I remember,” you reply, your fingers still lingering on the helmet.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The weight of the past and the uncertainty of the present hangs in the air. Lando breaks the silence, his voice low and measured. “I wasn't sure you'd actually come up.”

You turn to face him, meeting his gaze, but don’t attempt getting out of his arms. “I didn't think so either.”

Without breaking eye contact, he slowly leans in, his lips brushing against yours. It's a tentative touch, a testing of waters, and you find yourself responding to the familiarity of the kiss. The taste of the past lingers, and for a moment, it's as if the years haven't passed. But reality crashes back in, and you pull away, the distance now a necessary boundary. Lando looks at you, a mix of emotions playing on his face. There's longing, regret, and an unspoken acknowledgment of the complexities that bind you.

“I thought we could just catch up,” he says, his tone a mix of apology and yearning.

You turn in your place, facing him. “Catching up was never our strong suit, was it?”

“Not really,” Lando shakes his head, “no.”

You bite down on the corner of your lip, threading your fingers through his curls as you pull his face down to meet yours as you rise on your tiptoes, “It’s a bad idea, right?”

Lando lets out a supportive hum as he lets his lips softly brush against yours, “The worst.” And maybe he should have been the gentleman and pull away, but when he sees your eyes closing, he just leans in further to press his lips against yours – and the way you respond to his kiss? It's as if the world outside ceases to exist. The kiss deepens, each brush of his lips against yours reigniting a long-buried flame. Lando's hands find their way to the small of your back, pulling you closer, erasing the physical space between you.

You don’t complain as he pulls you towards his bedroom, or when he gently throws you on his bed, the anticipation hanging thick in the air. As he hovers over you, the weight of the past and the intensity of the present converge. His hands trace the contours of your face, memorizing every curve as if committing it to memory. And when the two of you get lost between each other within his sheets, the only thing that ends up coming from your mouth is either his name, or some sort of encouragement to keep him going. After he manages to wear you out, Lando decides that you’re definitely not going anywhere as he wraps you in his arms around you. The room is filled with the soft sounds of breaths syncing, hearts beating in tandem. Lando's fingers draw absent patterns on your skin while you check the messages that have accumulated in your phone. The glow of your phone illuminates the dim room, creating a subtle contrast to the warmth that envelops you. Lando's presence beside you adds an extra layer of comfort, a silent acknowledgment of the shared intimacy that unfolded moments ago.

From danny: please tell me you didn’t get kidnapped by the organ mafia From danny: wink twice if you’re alive From danny: this is not funny, where are you? From danny: fine i’ll ask alex to ask lily

Rolling your eyes before sending him a text to let your brother know you’re okay, you decide to turn your attention to the group chat with Lily and Kika.

From kika: did you get home safe? From lily m: daniel is pretty stressed about it From lily m: please for the love of god tell us you’re home and not with lando right now To lily m + kika: omg just calm down i’m in bed To lily m + kika: and i’m going to sleep To lily m + kika: love you guys

You catch a glimpse of Lando’s grin over your shoulder as you click your phone off, but he only chuckles as he buries his face into your neck as he leaves small kisses to the skin there. “Well, I’m not lying, I just didn’t specify where I was.”

“Or in whose sheets,” his laugher gets louder as you jokingly slap him on the arm, “go to sleep, honey, we’ll be tired in the morning.”

And it might’ve been a bad idea to message him in the first place, but it certainly doesn’t feel like one.

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